


Undefinable

by jmcats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Las Vegas AU, M/M, Ziam fic, ziam smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 53,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmcats/pseuds/jmcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just a trip with <i>his boys</i> before Liam has to learn what <i>separation anxiety</i> truly means and this little holiday may never mend what broke Louis and Harry or the distance that keeps Niall from them or the fact that Zayn is now somewhere between <i>just mates</i> and <i>something more</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undefinable

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted a fun fic where the boys spend a week in Las Vegas, Harry and Louis fight, Niall gambles, and Zayn's loved Liam since they were teens but Liam never really got it. Hopefully I pulled this off!
> 
> This fic is unceremoniously dedicated to [Caitlin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/scottmcniceass/pseuds/scottmcniceass) for the many ways she has inspired and encouraged me. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> It would also not be possible without [Lea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflehood/pseuds/wafflehood) who keeps me going and reminds me we write for ourselves first, our audience second. Thanks babe! xx
> 
> WARNING: There's some liberties taken in this fic (Like the drinking age in America being 21 and none of the boys being that age in this fic but this is fiction, right?) and I can't remember all of the details from my last visit to Las Vegas but I hope it's accurate enough. And I don't know nearly as much as I want to about British Education as I want but it's forgivable, maybe?
> 
> I did my best to make this fic a little less heavy on the descriptions but I might not have pulled it off the way it was supposed to be. I apologize in advance.

“He’s not going to make it.”

Liam grins softly, the corners of his mouth upturning in a sharp angle as he lifts cinnamon eyes from his laptop – _Captain America_ is the kind of film he associates with long trips across the Atlantic, pinning together the States and mates and endless sunshine and Las Vegas into a neat corner of his mind – to shift over Louis.  Maybe it’s a trick of light – he blames that on his mild obsession with magicians and David Copperfield as an adolescent – the way Louis’ eyes are starry blue like the sharpest tip of an ocean wave but the sun gleams high and warm off the tall windows inside of Heathrow Airport.  He lets white teeth tug at his bottom lip, taking in the silly beanie pulled over Louis’ thick brown hair – still traces of _Harry Styles_ , prominent but fading – as Louis sits atop one of his suitcases with the collar of his t-shirt stretched low to expose a map of ink across tan skin and the kind of expectant look pinching his face that Liam’s sort of fallen in love with over the years.

“He’ll make it,” Liam says with a softer smirk, glances split between Steve Rogers’ transformation and the indifferent looks Louis keeps offering him.

“He _won’t_ ,” Louis sighs, slouching forward while thumbing mindlessly through a game of Angry Birds on his mobile.  “He probably doesn’t even want to go because – “

“He’ll _make_ it,” Liam affirms, drawing his eyebrows together and the curve of his mouth – stern without malice – silences Louis briefly.

Louis lifts his shoulders for a small shrug and the sun clicks off the side of his face to highlight that promising look just underneath his lashes like _I hope you’re right_ or _maybe I’m just scared I’m making the wrong decision_.

Fingers work their way up lazily against tan skin, over dark ink that’s all paper airplane, a flock of birds, a cup of tea, spider-webs while Louis looks at the blur of people rushing through the airport like this is not their last stop.  Liam grins to himself and wonders if it ever is; _the last stop_ , that is.  He strays his eyes back to his laptop and lets the warm light of the sun pound against his back and remind him that while it feels like the edge of August in London, it’ll feel like the bright birth of June once they touch down in Las Vegas.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered,” Louis mutters, starting up a new game – Candy Crush this time because Louis is a mindless addict when it comes to social media games – while flickering narrowed blue eyes over Liam.

Liam’s smile slides sideways over his face and he puffs out a small laugh.  “Have you rung him lately?”

“Wouldn’t dare,” Louis says quickly, his voice thick with a tartness that Liam’s starting to associate with Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles.

It’s a new taste – like the first sip of beer that your tongue never adjusts to until the sixth or seventh one you’ve had – but Liam’s sunk into the way they’re all bitter words and daylong looks now like _madly in love_ and _until death do us part_ wasn’t once part of the way the two of them worked.

“Texted him earlier,” Liam says offhandedly, teeth still stinging against his bottom lip because it’s raw but it’s the only thing holding back words like _you still love him_ and _I wish things were much,_ much _different_.  “He’s taking the Tube here.”

Louis snorts, eyes rolling expectantly and Liam bites at his own grin like they’re thinking the same thing.

“ _Harry_ doesn’t do public transportation,” Louis declares, folding his arms and stretching out the fabric of his shirt more until stitches of ink shine dark and shadowy over his skin.

Liam nods, grinning at the way Chris Evans goes from scrawny but determined to bulky yet poetically just and it reminds him of – he smirks to himself and blurs those thoughts with everything else he’s become good at tucking away in his mind for a more appropriate time.

You know, like the first time you say _‘I love you’_ or possibly on your death bed.  Liam thinks it’s more like the latter rather than the former but those kind of perpetual thoughts never led him much of anywhere.

“I blame _you_ for that,” Liam notes, lips quirking higher at the way Louis wrinkles his nose.

“I blame you for his mild obsession with plaid shirts and silly hats,” Louis bites back, his lips curling into a sneer.

Liam scoffs and Louis laughs bright and loud, unabashed even when a few women with their neatly pressed suits, pinned up hair, and air of arrogance click by them in their heels with roll-away carryon bags.  He smiles apologetically while Louis flips them off when they’re no longer _glaring_ at him.

“I’ve got proper good taste,” Liam states with a slightly less offended expression than the one Louis’ face carried earlier.  He’s pulling at the collar of his _the Who_ t-shirt – it’s borrowed, but still – and Louis’ eyeing him incredulously as he scrubs his knuckles down the worn denim of his vintage, acid-washed jeans.

“I blame you for his addiction to espressos and horrid love for romantic comedies.”

“Fucking bullshit, Liam,” Louis huffs and Liam lifts a shoulder as if to say _‘it’s true.’_   “He’s _your_ best mate.”

“He’s _your_ ex,” Liam teases quickly and it bites like needles just on the edge of your skin, the quick flash of solemnness and regret across silver-blue eyes before Liam’s mumbling, “’m sorry.”

Louis shakes his head quickly, a dismissive hand raised because he’s learned the definition of _I’m over it_ and _Harry Styles who?_ long before this chat ever started.

“He had shit taste in clothes,” Louis mumbles, tugging on his beanie – no, _Harry’s_ beanie – like a safety blanket and Liam slices his tongue with his teeth to stop the _‘and you loved his oversized jumpers and tight jeans on Fridays before Geometry’_ from slipping past his lips.

“We don’t have to do this,” Liam says instead, teeth aching over his already raw bottom lip.  He narrows his eyes a little in a half-apology and Louis tips his chin upward, defiant but questioning.

A sigh breaks past Louis lips, eyes rolling again.  “Payno, don’t – “

“We could not go,” Liam insists, scrubbing his knuckles over his cheek, the stiff remains of unshaven stubble prickling his skin.  “We don’t have to do this, y’know.  You don’t have to – “

“What?  Go to Vegas?  On the weekend that’s s’ppose to be my – “ The words stick to the roof of Louis’ mouth like they’re too heavy and Liam winces at the way Louis’ eyes go cold and a little shattered.

Louis clears his throat, tugging that silly beanie down until it hides the thick brown fringe and shadows his brow before he says, “No.  ‘m not going back to Doncaster for the next week to sit in me mum’s house with my little sisters driving me manic.  I’m sure Lottie and Fizz would love it but, fucking hell, ‘m _not_ doing it Payno.”

Liam nods slowly, thinks, _for you Louis, I understand_ , and he blinks at Louis for a moment until everything that feels restless calms like the slow shift of a tide against the wake of a sunrise.  It just stills and Louis smiles, goofy and direct, and Liam mirrors it for a instant because he knows Louis needs that sometimes.

He breathes in the _last boarding call_ for a flight or two, the shift of body after body bustling through whichever terminal they’re stationed at, and he lets Louis lean on him if it’s just enough for them to feel regular again.  He knows, through the years of glowing smiles and the months of _I hate you because I love you_ , that maybe it’s all Louis needs to survive a few more days.

Liam smiles, wide and unintentionally, when he spots a crown of soft curls and big green eyes.  He leans over his laptop, eyebrows lifted, and Harry is a clumsy mess of skinny jeans, a fedora cocked back on his head and barely covering those thick curls, a blazer, his shirt stretched down around the collar to expose ink that’s fresh and old and shiny against his soft skin.  He’s got a boarding pass tucked in his mouth with sunglasses pushed up over his brow and he’s dragging a pile of luggage that hangs from his shoulders, his arms, drug along the tiling of the floor by wobbly wheels and Liam chokes on a snort when the hurricane that is his best mate nearly topples over all of the baggage just in front of them.

“Told you he’d make it,” Liam whispers and he knows if Louis was close enough, he’d feel the sharp sting of Louis’ palm.  Louis settles for flipping him off instead and Liam slouches back into his bucket seat, the plastic groaning against the solid mass of his muscular frame, with a tipped up grin.

“You lot are absolutely no help,” Harry moans, dropping a few smaller bags – a Louis Vuitton and a basic leather carryon that probably holds Harry’s laptop and scattered news articles for their Uni newspaper – before adjusting his fedora.

Liam thinks he looks ridiculously and perfectly Harry Styles with those cherry lips, emerald eyes, clinking necklaces, every stitch of a hipster come to life.  He’s nothing like that ten year old he remembers when they were younger with the halfway-there dimples, even larger eyes, and hair too thick for the crown of his head.

“You didn’t say you were bringing half your Uni room with you,” Liam jokes, biting at a corner of his bottom lip with a soft chuckle.

Harry sighs, dramatic, and every inch of Louis Tomlinson’s influence over the years shows in those few seconds with the theatrical pout, arms folding over his chest, and a boot tapping impatiently on the ground.

“Shut it Li,” Harry quips but his voice is bright, dragging with a warmness that’s trailed by a kicked up grin.

Louis clears his throat, thumbing through his phone and keeping those blue eyes lowered like everything scrolling across that small screen is far more fascinating than the scene before him.

“Running late, yeah?” Louis huffs, his voice even but Liam catches the steeliness in his tone.

Harry toys with one of the rings on his right hand – a nervous habit he hasn’t broken since thirteen and dying to invite Hannah over for tea and _the Sorcerer’s Stone_ – while tracing eyes over Louis small frame.  He’s coiled in on himself a little and, even to complete strangers, Liam’s certain the awkwardness is penetrating.

“’m right on time,” Harry chimes with a bent up smile like a kid who’s lost their first tooth.  He lifts his hat, shifting lopsided curls around with a large hand before pressing out, “Maybe you just missed me.”

“Hardly,” Louis spits back with a tight grin, blue eyes wide like a full moon and he’s looking at Harry like _maybe I did_ but he refuses to say it.

Louis’ always been a bit of a stubborn little shit, something Liam kind of loathes but, somehow, Harry adores it.

Harry tilts his head a little, licking out a smile.  “You sure?”

“Quite positive,” Louis hums but his smile says something otherwise like – _We are; I’ve come apart and you’ve made me float like a pretty box of your evil. So tired, so easy I_ – and Liam sinks a little further back to observe, quick glances toward Red Skull and the Tesseract and star-spangled shields buzzing across the screen.

“You look,” Harry pauses, his dimple flaring against his slowly pinking cheek, thoughtful before he adds, “it’s been too long.”

Louis shrugs, barely a lift of shoulders, thumbing his phone again.  “Only a week since Greek Studies and – “

“Coffee at that little café I took you to for Valentine’s last year,” Harry finishes, blinking off a little look that reminds Liam of being sixteen and catching Harry snogging Louis behind the school, fisting each other’s jackets in the middle of November with red noses and sharp flashes of pink tongue.

Louis sighs, shoulders sinking.  “Right.  With Eleanor and Nathan and that one guy – “

“ _Greg_ ,” Harry adds quickly, still grinning.  “But you shared your coffee with me and we chatted about _the Vow_ for like an hour like it was a – “

“It was a _study group_ ,” Louis insists, his voice a little strangled and Liam watches the quick rush of pink assaulting Louis’ cheeks.  “Wasn’t a _date_.  Not in the least.”

Harry shrugs this time, a little more confident, and his voice drags when he says, “Never said it was.”

Louis rolls his eyes, biting off a small smile, kicking at one of Harry’s bags because he’s as outwardly bitter as he is secretly longing.  It rolls and hums – _Bleed out; what the fuck were you thinking? We are gonna fall if you lead us nowhere. No wasted time_ – with Harry shifting from foot to foot and Louis avoiding eye contact just long enough for the burn to cool like dry ice.

Blue eyes meet perfectly large green ones for a breath, held in oxygen, and this feels raw and still fresh even though it’s been months.  _Months too long_ , Liam thinks but this isn’t his battle, even if Harry is his best mate.

Louis smirks, evil-personified, before muttering, “Quite chuffed that you still seem to idolize Edward Cullen as a fashion god.”

Liam swallows back a laugh that rattles heavy and thick against his ribcage while Harry throws a hand over his chest, inhaling sharply and doing his best to look affronted – _I’ll be a thorn in your side ‘til you die_.

Harry grins, the corners of his lips curling dramatically, while tugging at the collar of his blazer.

“I always knew you fancied those films.”

“I _tolerated_ those films for you,” Louis corrects with a lifted finger like a warning and a _‘don’t you dare.’_   “I hate Kristen Stewart’s mere existence.”

Harry snorts, Liam leans back with a wide smile, and this feels so familiar like being cuddled up in Harry’s bedroom on a Friday night with boxes of pepperoni pizza, cases of Coke, half a bottle of whatever vodka Louis could nick from his parent’s cupboard, his four mates, and laughter setting the orchestra of teenage defiance – _I’ll be a thorn in your side for always. If we sink, we lift our love_.  It coils tightly around his stomach, suffocates some of the air in his lungs, and he doesn’t miss the moment those shared smiles between Harry and Louis turn cold with reality and _long forgotten_.  It pricks him a little sharper – his best mate in tears, Louis locking himself away for days without a text or call, the way everyone felt so on edge for weeks like an oncoming hailstorm with no sign of shelter – but he’s learned to swallow it down much quicker now.

 _Just a few days and then we’ll work it all out_ , he thinks like he’s promising not to break right along with them if, by chance, this last ditch effort as mates won’t end tragically.

Louis lifts his eyes once more and Liam can almost see the knots in his stomach, the way Harry pulls at the soft material of his Henley to stretch the fabric even more.  The matching swallows inked just below his collarbone shine dark and heavy on his skin with the sun arcing over his right side like he knows where to stand to catch the right lighting.

 _Fucking model_ , Liam thinks with a stupid grin and bright eyes.

“Nice hat,” Harry remarks, full on smile now like _I’m still here, on your heart_.

Something rattles at the back of Liam’s throat, blush rusting his cheeks as Louis narrows his eyes at him before glaring at Harry.

“Oi, fuck off.”

“Colorful language,” Harry laughs, tugging at a few curls that aren’t buried beneath that stupid fedora – fucking Frank Sinatra in disguise – before he adds, softly with a hint of thick candle wax glow, “I wonder if you’re still that brilliant with your vocabulary in the bedroom.”

Louis gasps, Liam holding in a large swallow of air and, _match-set-point_ for Harry Styles.

Louis swallows, quick and pinched, before leveling his eyes on the city of luggage surrounding Harry.  He smirks, lips quirked, eyes shiny with something ruthless but almost endearing.

“You do realize we’re only going to Vegas for like, I don’t know, _four days_ , yeah?” Louis asks, sarcasm heavy on the edge of his tongue.  “We’re not moving there.”

Harry adjusts the bag hanging off his shoulder like the weight’s too heavy for his slender frame before he replies, “These are not all of my bags, thanks Lou.”

“No.  Some of them are mine.”

Something coils itself, sharp and tight, around Liam’s stomach and it feels vintage and warm like the opening of a song by the Who or the Stones.  That voice – still vibrant with hints of Yorkshire and Bradford – edges against his ear and he watches with large admiring eyes as Zayn hops over the back of the seat next to him, sliding down so comfortably cool that even Liam hitches on his next breath.  It floats away just as quick as it came – well, not the shock and astonishment and general fondness he feels whenever he looks at Zayn – and Liam inclines like this is all so natural, this connection he and Zayn have had since they were thirteen and Zayn was reading thick books while Liam practiced his keepie-uppies in Zayn’s ridiculously large backyard.

The sun works like a beautiful halo over Zayn’s skin, the sharpness of his defined cheekbones.  Liam bites down on his lip until it aches, trying not to flush at the week old stubble kissing Zayn’s jaw and chin or the long sweep of eyelashes or his small shoulders or slightly chapped pink lips.  Maybe it’s the eyes – because they’re hazel but sometimes they look dark olive or honey-brown, possibly gold and sepia, yeah, that’s a color – and the way the gleam of the light catches every freckle in their irises.  It’s the way white teeth catch a bottom lip, full and slightly ruddy from pressure, and Zayn’s smile has always been a little crooked when he’s chuffed, eyes crinkling right along the edges with a scrunched up nose like, quite possibly, _Liam_ does this to him.

He thinks _beautiful_ isn’t a strong enough word to describe Zayn some days and it’s not accidental that Zayn looks this amazing all of the time.

His stomach drops out at the thought and, butterflies seems clichéd but yeah, the wings are large and flapping wide until his heartbeat is thrumming like _four-five-six_ instead of one beat, two beats.

“Lovely to see you again Malik,” Louis coos, snide and sardonic but he’s grinning like every word is the truth.  He jerks his head at Zayn like _hello_ and Zayn grins, sparked up light in his eyes crackling louder than dynamite.  “Cheers.”

“Still an arsehole, mate?” Zayn wonders, leaning back until his denim jacket spreads open to show off that white Henley with the buttons undone and tattoos run across his collarbone like graffiti.

Liam wants to reach out, push thick fingers through Zayn’s even thicker quiff that’s a little flat and fluffy, alive without much product.  He wants to finger the strands that are now a sharp copper color from the faded off blonde dye that he and Louis fucked up so royally just before the summer but he settles for toying with all of the loose threads from the holes in Zayn’s jeans, right around the knees, while sinking lower into his seat to give Louis a once over.

“What are best mates for?” Louis chimes back, winking at Zayn and they’ve always shared this bond – the only Yorkshire-bred lads in the bunch with their love for black coffee, almost criminal pranks, stupid jokes, and some insane desire to buy a van and paint it the colors of the Mystery Machine like every weekend was made for getting high and conjuring up chaos.

Zayn shrugs, crinkling his nose and Liam’s not jealous of the bond that Zayn and Louis created so easily years ago, but he kind of is.

Not that he and Zayn don’t have something magical – they do.  It’s odd and geeky and he thinks no one really gets why he prefers to cuddle up to Zayn in complete silence rather than live in the noise and static that comes with nights with Louis and long days chatting with Harry.

He just does.  He _craves_ it.

It feels too long since it’s been just the lot of them.  Years since secondary school when the five of them were gathered in the halls like they ran the school – they didn’t but Louis, some sort of unofficial leader who got them into more trouble than good, made them feel like the world was _theirs_ – and it feels even further when University started.  It feels like _home_ was no longer Zayn’s backyard or Harry’s bedroom or Louis’ basement.  Just a University room with Harry, Louis their unofficial third roommate, while Zayn was off at an art school just a town over.  And Niall, struck by luck and dumb genius, was even further away and he wonders how he survived that first term without each one of them within arm’s distance or the sound of Niall’s laugh, the warm press of Louis into his side while he struggled through Political Science, the rise and fall of the Roman Empire without Harry watching reruns of _the Walking Dead_ in the dark, the tingling press of Zayn’s fingers on his scalp while they smiled through page after page of _Infinite Crisis_.

He’s shaken from thoughts that start with _‘I should never have been this lucky’_ and end with _‘I want to run away from this; will you go with me’_ when Zayn shoves a steaming cardboard cup of coffee and one of those sticky treats, from the Starbucks no doubt, in his face with the corners of his mouth quirked.  His eyes are crinkled – completely chuffed – and Liam thinks _proud_ when he offers up a smile back to Zayn before taking each in a hand.

“Still like hazelnut and loads of cream in your coffee?” Zayn asks, blinking rapidly until those long lashes cast dark shadows over his cheeks.

Liam nods slowly, teeth pinching his lip, a fevered pink blush staining his cheeks.  It’s a lightheaded feeling like the first dip on a rollercoaster that sits your stomach uncomfortably in your throat.

“You remembered?” Liam asks, shy and sheepish and he feels so fucking childlike that it’s excruciating.

Zayn grins, cheeks high and eyes wrinkling again.  His teeth catch a corner of his lip this time, eyes glitter and gold, before he says a little quitter, “Among other things.”

He’s not sure where the choked sound at the back of his throat comes from but he feels Louis eyes on him, mocking but not disapproving.  Just… _thoughtful_.

“This is quite sickening, you do know that?”

“Oi, fuck off and update your Twitter,” Zayn laughs out, leaning a little further back until the plastic beneath him creaks and he’s so fucking casual about stretching high and wide before an arm slips around Liam’s shoulders, fingers playing along the worn fabric of his t-shirt.

“Already did,” Louis says coyly, his tongue flicking out behind teeth and he holds up his phone proudly.

“Obsessed much, dude?” Harry sighs, his voice dragging a little slower.

Louis kicks at one of the bags again but he’s smiling beneath his pout.  “Shut it Haz.”

Harry mocks him openly, all of his words smudged but it almost sounds like ‘ _don’t let me go, I can’t breathe’_ and Liam lean forward to avoid looking at the way Harry frowns.

“Says _‘@zaynmalik is arse over tit about’_ – “

“Shut it,” Zayn says quickly, his voice uncomfortably strained and there’s a thick moment of silence that drops down where Zayn glares, Louis shrugs, and it feels so much like _home_ again that he’s willing to live in the war between Harry and Louis for a few days just to hold onto this moment.

They wrap themselves in smiles and stupid laughter and chats about upcoming studies because September is fast approaching and, fuck it, none of them want to give up the summer for Shakespeare or the square root of any number.

Louis scrolls through his phone, unattached to anything but updating Twitter religiously because they all have their _thing_ and social media seems to be Louis’.  Harry seems content with crossword puzzles and pastry and his boots kicked up on one of Zayn’s carry-ons.  His Beats kick out pulsing music that shifts from Pet Shops Boys to Jack Johnson to Bastille and Liam catches the tail end of – _I’ve been stuck now so long; we just got the start wrong. One more last try. I’m a get the ending right. You can’t stop this and I must insist you haven’t had enough_ – while letting eyes flicker over _the Grudge_ playing painfully low on his laptop.  It’s all ‘ _last call for passengers boarding our flight to Nice’_ and _‘Mr. Grimshaw, you’re needed in baggage claim at Carousel B’_ with another rush of people looking for their terminal, their gate, their way out of here toward something different.

Zayn’s curled into himself, still next to Liam but in another world with black-framed glasses resting on his nose, his hair looking even softer, and a copy of _Siege_ in his lap.  He watches the way Zayn thumbs through every page with some wicked content tugging the ends of his mouth upward and his head is bowed like this little world only has room for himself.  Fingers scratch at that thick scruff, run over chapped lips, and he thinks about Zayn at sixteen with glasses, _Much to Do about Nothing_ , and a complex over Bruce Wayne’s death at the hands of Darkseid.

Liam takes a small sip of his coffee, shoulders cold because Zayn’s arm is no longer stretched across them, but he smiles anyway.

He knocks his shoulder against Zayn’s, playful and just like years ago when they crowded together to read _the Death of Superman_ over cherry Coke and chocolate candy bars, rocking to whatever’s streaming through Harry’s headphones now – _And free bar, that’s the point. Spilling Amaretto ‘cause of previous joints. I’m sitting with a girl, fortunate placing_.  He remembers how Zayn smells: like cigarette smoke and mint but something layered underneath that like firewood, cinnamon sticks, and vanilla frosting.  The kind of icing you drape across cupcakes and his mum always loved to bake them for Zayn and his younger sisters.  Zayn would always sneak Liam some with a cup of chamomile tea drenched in raw honey.

“So you’re still in love with the Avengers?” Liam asks with his tongue licking his lips wet and a shine to his eyes when Zayn glances up, matching smiles and cheeks hot.

Zayn shrugs, his nose scrunching like _you remembered_ and he says, softer now, “’m partial to the new Justice League.”

“Traitor,” Liam teases, poking at Zayn’s ribs beneath a barrier of denim and thin cotton and Zayn giggles like he can’t believe Liam.

“’m _not_.”

“You were so Marvel,” Liam whispers, inching in and it’s like dry logs covered in moss, the scent.

“Still am,” Zayn says a little defiantly but his lips betray him with a quirk to his grin.  He adjusts his glasses with a little push from his index finger and Liam feels the scratch of stubble along the pad of his thumb when he drags it over Zayn’s chin.

“A little more adventurous,” Liam says, hopeful because it was such a struggle to get Zayn to appreciate the layers beneath Clark Kent over the historical beauty rinsed through Wolverine’s backstory.

Zayn rocks closer, breath warm and moist against Liam’s cheek as he says, “Broader spectrum, my friend.  ‘m like Scott Summers walking through Gotham City.  It’s like, I don’t know, _breathtaking_.”

 _I’ll be your Batman_ , Liam thinks, clumsy and the tops of his ears burn because he knows Zayn can feel his thoughts like this.

“Doctor Doom or Bane?” Liam asks quickly, shuffling away from the way he’s fuzzed out and smiling goofily because it’s been too long.  It sticks on his tongue, _where did those months go when you were sketching the sunrise and I was lost on Aristotle_ , and he waits with oxygen caught in the back of his throat as Zayn grins.

“Bit unfair, yeah?” Zayn challenges, smile sliding sideways across his face with mint green slivers in those gold eyes.  “Two different genres, man.  Or universes.  Magic and menace, babe.  No comparison.”

“Bane.”

Zayn smirks, reeling back a little – _too far, come closer_ , he thinks – before nodding happily.  “By default.  Like on presence alone, y’know?”

Liam snorts and nods along.  He does.  Still, he likes the way Zayn’s eyes read _honesty_ and his grin is tall and spreading over his cheeks.

Zayn drags up the sleeves of his jacket and ink is scattered so large and out of place over one forearm that Liam has to catch his breath to remember every little stitch of dark color.  He guides his eyes, absently wants to map out each design with nervous fingers, and Zayn’s lips feel chapped along the shell of his ear for a, “Join me, yeah?”

Liam does, sliding into that space between their seats and he lets Zayn read aloud, voice soft and gleeful, while he taps out – _why you talk so loud?_ – along Zayn’s bare knee.

He barely notices Zayn’s hand – so familiar, so _them_ – cupping the nape of his neck, sliding up until it holds the back of Liam’s skull and fingers shift into the longer bits of hair at the top of his head.  It’s a strong press against his scalp and they’ve done this a dozen times before.

“Miss the buzzcut,” Zayn says offhandedly, still turning pages with his free hand and eyes on the splashes of color as he adds, “but I like this too.”

Liam feels hot and every inch of skin that’s viewable is probably a dull pink but he doesn’t shrink away from Zayn because Zayn’s his mate.  He’s clever and always says the nicest things and, fuck, Liam can take a compliment, he can.  Or he _can’t_ but he’s learned to from Zayn because Zayn’s always done that.  Little words that make Liam feel strong, heroic, more than just boring and ordinary like the rest of the world has always made him feel.

Waving cape and spandex and a fucking call sign in the night and Liam knows it’s all because of Zayn’s words.

He finishes off his coffee before they make it to the final few pages of the book and Zayn’s shrugging out of his jacket, the wait for their flight longer and longer.  Zayn stands, stretches with a loud yawn that draws up Louis’ attention but barely affects Harry and Liam catches hints of a thick heart tattoo on his hip before Zayn’s drawing down the hem of his shirt.

“Gonna check on Nialler,” Zayn tells them and Liam wants to protest, or go with, but he settles back into his own chair while the others wave him off.

Liam chews on his thumbnail, Zayn becoming a spotted glow, then dimmer and dimmer and he’s lost to the crowd pushing through Heathrow before Liam can blink five times.  He drags thick fingers through his even thicker hair and it’s been _months_.

April, when Zayn last came up to see them with charcoal still staining his fingertips and a thin shadowy scruff to his cheeks that bit at Liam’s own fingers when he rubbed playfully at Zayn’s face.  They were wide-eyed and Liam remembers nights on the campus lawn, watching winking stars with beers surrounding all of them and Zayn’s sleepy head on his shoulder.  And it’s been like this – Zayn visiting every few months for a weekend to ravage the town with Louis, cuddle up to the Tenth Doctor with Harry, lie around lazily with Liam while smiling through the entire _Spider-Man_ trilogy until Zayn’s leaving again and Liam’s feel just a bit… _devastated_.

He thinks the summer is the worst – heading back home for months, only chatting with Harry a few days out of the week because Harry spends his summers traveling the country with his mum and Gemma.  Louis’ even less frequent with his calls and texts though Liam finds his Twitter feed crowded with messages from Louis about Docaster and his sisters and his mum’s homemade desserts.  Zayn hides from the world for the summer, practically invisible to all except Liam.  Liam gets the messages, the late night phone calls where Zayn’s yawning into his mobile and drowsily listing off all the reasons why he thinks the third _X-Men_ was the most important in the series.  They spend Saturday nights on Skype when neither isn’t too busy stretching out the days in the summer and none of it is like having Zayn right there, giggling into his ear, quoting off his favorite Picasso illustrations or the beauty of post-modern architecture.

When he lifts his eyes, slow and a little unsteady, Louis’ grinning at him.  He’s the fucking Cheshire in Wonderland and Liam feels something unsettle in the pit of his stomach.

“You know he’s _madly_ in love with you,” Louis cheers softly, tugging at an end of that floppy beanie.  “Massively.”

Liam’s wide-eyed and his lips part not for words but for a small breath of stinging air.  His teeth find just the edge of his lip and he thinks Louis is fucking bladdered.  Or psychotic and he tends to believe the latter.

Louis nods, a defiant curve to his smile before Liam fixes his eyes on Harry and, fuck it all, Harry’s nodding happily.  He’s straightening his fedora and lowering those stupid Wayfarers over mint green eyes but his grin is cherry-pink and wide.

“It’s true.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Liam hisses, tipping his head back with his brow lowered.  He steadies his bottom lip between white teeth, scratching at his own stubble until it burns along the pad of his thumb.

Louis shrugs.  “Are you quite finished lying to yourself Payno?”

Liam winces, nearly balks but he schools his expression instead.  He runs a hand over his chest like it’ll steady the way his heart drums snare-heavy and bass-laden but it doesn’t.  It thumps in his ears and Zayn’s his mate.  Since thirteen or fourteen or since he realized Zayn was incredibly cool, maybe too much so for Liam with those hazel eyes and long eyelashes that were like a casting of inky feathers.

“He doesn’t fancy – “

“Oh come on, you know he _does_ ,” Louis laughs out.

Harry nods again and Liam thinks he’s not much of a best mate.  Not completely.

“What about Geneva?” Liam huffs, scratching dull nails down the fabric of his jeans.

“Kids stuff,” Louis hums.

Harry snickers, lowering his sunglasses until they rest on the tip of his nose.  “They were _fifteen_ Li.  No one falls in love then.”

“You did,” Louis and Liam say together and, well, Harry can’t argue against that.  Not completely.

“And Perrie – “

Louis waves him off, slouching down into his chair, folding his feet underneath himself.

“A well put-on act if you ask me,” Louis insists with the kind of charm to his voice that Liam knows the world falls over.  At least, Harry did at one point.

“They were – “

Louis sighs, loud and dramatic and so… _Louis Tomlinson_.  “It was _nothing_ , Li.  An honest to goodness friendship that meant nothing.  The bloke has been head over heels since just before sixteen and we’ve been telling you this for years.”

“Have not,” Liam argues quietly, his face wrinkling with confusion and, well, he doesn’t _think_ they have.

“Have so,” Harry exhales out, fitting himself into the chair Zayn once occupied while casually slinging an arm around Liam’s shoulders.  He tugs Liam in close, warmth framing them and Liam doesn’t need things like _comfort_ and _placating_ and he’s not a fucking kid who just found out Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

It’s stupid, honestly.  Zayn doesn’t love him… _like that_.

“Fucking idiots,” Louis chides with a tickled laugh.

“Don’t be rude,” Harry huffs out with a small pout and their stare lasts uncomfortably long until Harry’s skin feels cold against Liam’s.

It’s just heavy silence except for _Last boarding call for Rome_ and the thrum of Harry’s Beats still thuds from around his neck like – _An empty room; I’m empty too. And everything reminds me of you. So many things I shouldn’t have missed._   Its king to his pawn and Liam’s lip feels raw and sore before Louis sighs and looks away.  Harry peels away then and Zayn’s scuffing his damn trainers along the floor when he returns with another cup of coffee for himself this time and a pinched expression.

Harry slides out of Zayn’s seat with an even exchange between the two that Liam swears doesn’t say _‘mine and no I won’t share him with you’_ but Harry forfeits the seat anyway.  And Zayn slides back in it with a smirk, blowing softly at his coffee while leaning into Liam, the brush of shoulders stinging this time rather than promising comfort and familiarity.  He swallows and Zayn hums quietly beneath a breath and a swallow of black coffee stirred creamy with milk – _I know you’re fine, but what do I do?_   Liam moves off instinct, folding an arm around Zayn’s smaller shoulders, and his heart wades in the space between his throat and chest while Zayn grins up at him like _thank you_ is waiting on his lips.

“Lads!  ’s my boys!  Oi, dudes, the fuck you all look smashing.”

Niall Horan has always been something of an unpredictable twister, the last loop and turn on a rollercoaster; loud and unabashed.  He’s bright blue eyes that are the clearest water just before the ocean surface and a punchdrunk smile that moves like an epidemic across rooms.  He’s toying with the ends of his white-blonde hair – Liam thinks in bleach and boxes of hair dye and three summers ago when it was lavender and brighter – that’s soft and fluffy like newborns with cheeks that are stained a permanent scarlet.  Liam guesses it’s from too much laughter over the years, Louis thinks it’s from frequent masturbation but no one ignores the way Niall’s offbeat nature seems to compliment that missing piece in all of their friendships.

He’s got an arm thrown nonchalantly around some dishy flight attendant whose blonde hair falls off her shoulders in thick curls, her skirt wrinkled and she’s missing more than a few buttons on her no longer perfectly pressed button down.  Her lipstick looks smeared and Niall’s got that cheeky grin like _I give two fucks_ and he tastes nothing like propaganda and informality that Liam associates with the friends he hasn’t seen in nearly a year.

No, Niall feels like that tight hug and _hello_ you get when coming home for the holidays.  It sticks for days.

Niall whispers something into the blonde’s ear that has her blushing a cheap pink and smacking playfully at his chest before she’s inching away with a flirty wave of her fingers and a rip in her stockings.

Harry puckers his lips teasingly, Louis groaning with a smirk and Zayn’s laughing into the crook of Liam’s neck, his breath hot and moist against Liam’s skin.  Liam’s breath hitches on the dry brush of lips over his birthmark and that’s new – the small stir in his pants like _maybe do that again please_ , the way his fingertips turn as they tremble over Zayn’s shoulder.  There’s exhaust in his lungs and tiny sparks like the first twitch of a flame against candle wax – pure, pure and soft all over.

“You lot look simply gangster,” Niall laughs out, the sound warm like wood burning in a fireplace.  He tugs Harry into a fumbled hug that sends them both reeling with giggles while pushing Louis’ – or _Harry’s_ as the property lines between _yours_ and _mine_ have not really been settled yet – beanie back enough to slide his fingers into Louis’ product-sticky hair.

Niall grins over Harry’s shoulder at Zayn, nodding at him and this feels so much better.  It’s water drifting under a frozen lake and Liam takes it all into his lungs with a shaky breath.

His boys.  His lads.  His safety blanket.

“Feels like forever,” Harry says against Niall’s hairline, leaving behind sloppy kisses that Niall smirks at.

“Since January,” Niall snickers out, playfully shoving at Harry’s shoulder before drawing him in close again.

“Zayn’s birthday,” Louis says a little less enthused, narrowing his eyes at them, half-faded jealousy that Liam’s certain used to be much more pronounced when they were – well, they’re _not_ anymore.

“That Chinese buffet,” Niall adds, still laughing.

“Got us kicked out,” Zayn points out, the roughest part of his stubble clipping the side of Liam’s neck.

“Styles did,” Niall insists while batting lashes that do little to make him seem innocent.  Still, he tries.

“It was you who snuck in that flask of whiskey,” Harry beams, fitting nimble fingers into Niall’s fluffed up quiff.

“Bourbon,” Niall corrects, his nose scrunching just slightly with his gleaming smile.

“Fucking Cokes and beef with broccoli and General Tso’s,” Louis starts, a triumphant fist in the air like a renegade.

“Spicy orange chicken,” Liam says with a laugh bubbling from his chest, his arm going tighter around Zayn’s shoulder, “and Zayn nearly falling out of his chair during the birthday song – “

“That _you_ sang to him with a plastic fork as a microphone and promises of fortune cookies,” Louis reminds him with a teasing smirk that lifts goosebumps over Liam’s skin.

“You fucking smashed it Li,” Niall hums, the curve of his smile higher and Liam’s cheek pink before Zayn can nod and sink closer to Liam.  Something hot spreads across Liam’s chest but he doesn’t bother pulling away from Zayn because this feels perfect.

 _Practical_ , he thinks but he doesn’t really know the definition like he knows Zayn does.  It feels weird dancing over his tongue and – no, perfect is good – he shrugs off the way Louis’ waggling his eyebrows because none of them get it.

He and Zayn just work differently.

“Could always be like this,” Louis tells him as Niall sinks into the plastic seat beside him, curling an arm around Louis’ waist and they fit like the corners of a thousand piece puzzle, “if you’d just come to University with us.”

Niall laughs, low and just a little incidental because they’ve had this talk before.

“Y’know studies aren’t for me, mate.  ‘m not like ye blokes,” Niall grins, not a hint of shame withered through his tone.  “Just not as good as you lot.”

 _You’re better_ , Liam thinks and he tries not to think of cheating off of Niall through most of Tenth Year to survive rugby practice and Harper Lee and his relationship with that one girl that only lasted a few months, even after it took him twenty-two tries and a song to win her over.

“Besides,” Niall hums, hugging Louis in closer like not enough pieces are touching, “I think I’ve found my place in life.”

“Irony,” Harry giggles, folding his arms after pushing those black-framed Wayfarers above his brow again.  “A man who travels most of Europe and the States throughout the year playing in poker tournaments has, as he says, _‘found his place in life.’_ ”

“Stop borrowing Zayn’s dictionary you twat,” Niall says with a little scowl that fades off quickly for shared grins and playful eye-rolling.  “Online poker got me here.  You too.”

Harry shrugs, his blazer looking loose around his shoulders but tight around his arms.

“’s how you want to spend your life, Ni?” Zayn asks, tipping his head back until it rests on Liam’s bicep, comfortable.  “Playing poker and – “

“Winning a shitload of money?” Niall offers and Zayn bites down on a small smile.  “Of course, Zaynie.  Wish my daft arse would’ve thought of it years ago.”

Liam frowns a little and it all started that summer after A-Levels when Harry drug Louis off to Manchester while Zayn spent June and July doing sketches of comic book characters.  That summer Niall went back to Mullingar to tend to his ailing dad, phone calls infrequent until August when Niall won a few games online and told them all he wouldn’t be headed off to Uni while they all foolishly tried to learn the words to Katy Perry – _You could travel the world but nothing comes close to the golden coast_ – and ended up hating the song by September.

Niall was gone by October, somewhere in Spain, playing Texas Hold ‘em and it was text messages and visits too infrequent for Liam but the other boys adjusted.

They were always much better at this than Liam was.

“’sides,” Niall grins and everything starts like this: with a _besides_ and a smirk and _trouble, trouble, watch out for Godzilla_ follows, “My money has all of us flying first class this time out lads.”

Zayn whistles lowly, Harry nearly sprinting to flop into Niall’s lap, and Louis’ shoving at both of them while mumbling, “Shameless piece of promotional advertisement for a wasted mind.”

“Bonus,” Zayn giggles and Liam’s soft, cozy with Zayn’s head on his shoulder again and Harry spread out over Niall like an oversized duvet.

“And no fighting,” Niall warns, his words almost an afterthought before he’s trading off stares with Harry and Louis.  “’s rule number one.”

“The _only_ rule,” Zayn adds with a pointed finger.

Louis offers him another finger that’s not as polite before Niall says, “Well, not the only one.  Getting bladdered and nameless shags falls in there somewhere.  Oh and Caesar’s Palace because Cirque du Soleil is a must.”

“Thought it was at the Mirage?” Harry puts out, his brow wrinkling in thought.

“Treasure Island,” Zayn notes and Liam’s laughing at the way Niall’s expression says he’s trying to map out the Strip for every little stop he wants to make.

“Whatever,” Niall drums out, tugging at a few of Harry’s curls while tangling his fingers with Louis’ like he’s the tether between the two for now, “No fighting between you two.  This is not the Spanish Inquisition – “

“Do you even know what that was about?” Louis asks with a hint of arrogance that’s proceeded by a wicked, knowing grin.

“I know you’re an arse,” Niall retorts, fumbling a smile into Harry’s shoulder like _protect me from Satan_ before he adds, “Doesn’t matter.  Don’t want shit from either of you, especially since I booked you two the honeymoon suite at Treasure Island – “

“Are you fucking mad you little – “

“ – and no, ‘m not gonna play dad while in Vegas ‘cause that’s Liam’s job so – “

“It’s _not_ ,” Liam pouts but Zayn’s curling up to him with a quiet laugh, sipping at his coffee.

“Daddy Payne,” Zayn whispers and Liam shivers, wonders how that word looks on Zayn’s tongue when someone’s sliding so deep in him that his cock leaks fat drops of precome and, fuck off, his jeans are a little too tight now.

Harry groans loud and long.  “Ni, you know that – “

“Shut it, both of you ‘cause I booked the rooms months ago before – “

“Fuck off,” Louis hisses, punching Niall’s thigh and Harry smacks his hand, narrowing his eyes at Louis but Louis’ glare is a little more menacing.

“We could stand outside your door and sing ‘the Way You Look Tonight,’” Zayn teases, eyes crinkling like wind shifting off the surface of a river with his nose scrunching up and white teeth bare throughout his laughter.

“Could light candles across the bathroom floor and rose petals all over the sheets,” Liam adds, choked up giggles as he and Zayn fall into each other.

“Champagne,” Zayn snickers, fingers pulling through the softer bits of Liam’s hair.  “And Trojan because Harry hates Durex and I never got why he likes oils instead of lube because – “

“He hates getting sticky during a shag,” Liam tags on, wheezing with laughter and Zayn’s forehead touches his temple with their stomachs tight, arms around each other.

“We know too much about each other,” Niall says lowly, smirking.

“Oh fuck off,” Louis snaps, sliding a seat further from Niall and Harry before he grins, some sort of demonic look that silences the tail end of Liam’s laugh.  “We’re not the ones who act like we’ve been married since we were fucking fifteen.”

Liam’s startled silent, cheeks heavy with blood and hot with shades of rose, and Zayn’s laughter dies off a few beats after.  He goes tense under Liam and it’s awkward – _afflicting_ , Zayn once taught him over a bottle of vodka and _the Incredible Hulk_ playing in the background while they smiled over a copy of _the House of M_ – while Liam chews at his bottom lip.

There’s three sets of eyes on them, daring either of them to choke out a _fuck no_ but Liam looks away just as quickly as Zayn scoots from under his arm.  Cold and senseless and there’s no invitation for this feeling of ‘ _you’re wrong you fucking idiots’_ but he bites down on thoughts, sharp words while Zayn pushes out of his seat to snatch up a comic tucked under his bag.  He flicks Louis’ forehead while passing, shaking his head and he’s in a corner of the terminal with his head down, reading without another word.

It’s Niall who punches Louis this time, hard, in the shoulder before he carefully removes Harry from his lap.  He crosses that short distance that feels like the Atlantic dividing all of them and there’s some sort of self-assurance in his eyes that Liam didn’t sign up for when he hears Harry’s music thrumming again – _I would go anywhere with you; what a line_.  An arm that doesn’t feel long or strong enough fits around his shoulders and Liam tries not to feel stiff under the weight of Niall’s smile but he does.

It just happens that way, sometimes.

“He still fancies you, huh?” Niall notes like all of this is common knowledge or drunken secrets the three of them share when Liam’s asleep.

“No,” Liam says briskly, a little too sharply and he tries to school his expression when Niall’s smile fades off.  “He’s been my best mate since…”

“Y’know I never got,” Niall starts, cheeks lifting for another grin – _Tell me, are you happy? Are you really happy?_ – before he his voice goes far off, “why you never gave the bloke a chance.  Dani was a waste.”

Liam blinks at him, once, twice, fucking _eight_ times while Niall checks out a few more flight attendants with their navy colored suits and red lips, mascara thick like nothing he just said matters.  Like confessions are normal and he knows none of them really ever fancied Danielle but.  He doesn’t know how to finish that thought, not without leaving his lips bitten raw again while glancing over to Zayn with hooded eyes and a little taste of wonder.  A little fevered _what if_ that hangs over him like the stars in a purple sky in March.

He slouches down into his seat, plastic bending and wailing beneath him, until he hears, “We are now boarding first class passengers for our trans-Atlantic flight from London to Las Vegas at Gate…” and Harry squeals like a child.  Zayn’s head lifts, long strands of hair completely out of place from fixing his fingers – Liam’s too, his fingers still numb from the softness of that hair – through it for the past ten minutes.

“For Christ’s sake, ‘s about time,” Louis moans and Niall shifts a grin over his face, tugging Liam in closer.

“It’s gonna be so much fun,” Niall promises, his voice hollowed and low but so anxious that it twitches a smile over Liam’s lips.

He nods and thinks of seventeen and electric hearts in their eyes after their first concert together – the finalists from X-Factor and it was Zayn’s first _everything_ that night with Liam by his side.  He thinks in bundled up coats with thick gloves on their fingers, walking in the snow, Harry carrying Louis on his back like he was weightless while Niall sung loudly into the wooly fabric of his scarf.  Zayn’s cheeks kissed a stark pink and their fingers intertwined because he didn’t want any of them to drift too far off before they had no choice but to.  Zayn asleep in his bed after midnight, snoring into Liam’s shoulder, legs tangled under the duvet with Louis’s scrunched up face pushed into the space between Liam’s shoulder blades from behind.

It’s like walking toward _anticipation_ and _happy_ and _will you go with me to see the Dark Knight Rises for the_ ninth _time babe because you know you want to_ over Zayn’s lips last summer.  He pulls in a hot breath – _Zayn, Zayn, Zayn_ in the background – as Harry sidles up to his side, Niall to his left, Louis leading them.  He doesn’t have to glance over his shoulder for Zayn because he can _smell_ him so close, _feels_ Zayn’s fingertips on the small of his back like _I’m here_ and he has a hard time removing that smile from his lips for what seems like hours as they wait in line to board the plane.

**

He misses the call for _please turn off all of your electronic devices_ and the male flight attendant’s instructions on safety, emergency exits, seat belts when Zayn fits himself into the seat next to Liam.  He’s ridiculous smiles, cheeks a safe strain of pink, the smell of cigarette smoke hanging off his clothes like he’s just had one in the toilets.  He’s tugging his denim jacket closed and Liam wants to say, _‘no, wait, I want to wrinkle your shirt with my fingers first’_ but he hangs the words on the roof of his mouth instead.  He swallows, still tasting hazelnut and Zayn’s affectionate tone, offers up a quiet smile for Zayn that sends his heart out of syncopation – was that three beats to one?

“Traded off seats with Harry,” Zayn whispers with that too slick smirk over perfectly pink lips.

Liam scrunches his eyebrows a little but he’s not very good at fighting the smile on his mouth or the way his brow wrinkles with mild confusion.

“But that means Haz and Lou will have to sit together,” Liam says lower, leaning in.  Zayn’s face is written in mischief and side helpings of pride that Liam snickers at, stomach tightening with the sound – or maybe the way Zayn suddenly has him feeling hot and uncomfortably happy.

He brushes it off to watch a few passengers find their seats or stuff the overhead compartments with too big luggage but it doesn’t soften the blow when Zayn’s fingers trace over the _‘only time will tell…’_ inked across Liam’s wrist.  There’s soft callous and he’s used to dry paint being there instead of this bittersweet softness just at the tips.

“They’re gonna kill each other,” Liam laughs out, choking down the sound of his voice as Harry shrinks closer to the window as Louis sighs loudly when he realizes, _oh, good play Malik_.

“I know,” Zayn snickers, enough seats away that he only has to view Louis’ glare rather than _feel_ it, “won’t it be fun to watch?”

Liam snorts, nodding, and he unconsciously turns his palm over so Zayn’s fingers can tickle over the skin there.  He misses the _it can used as a floatation device_ to draw his eyes over Zayn’s dark eyebrows, defined cheeks, the way his lips dictate the brightness of his almond – patterned gold around the pupils – eyes.

“Gonna kill you in your sleep,” Louis hisses across the aisle, a woman just behind him stiffening up with a finger itching for the emergency call button.

Zayn cackles, hunching down when one of the flight attendants gives him a stern look and Liam fizzles with blush, hooking his chin on Zayn’s shoulders and mesmerized by the small shapes Zayn traces out over his palm with dull nails.  He bites into his lip, his own eyes crinkling this time when Zayn looks up and their breathing is a little shallower but still in unison.

“Do you want my pillow?” Harry asks, soft and weaved with years of _be my first kiss_ against his tongue.  It hurts Liam more than Louis who shrugs away and steals Harry’s bag of crisps before logging back into Twitter.

Harry doesn’t turn cold but something shifts, achingly apparent, and he’s sliding on his headphones before the _‘fasten your seat belts’_ sign lights up overhead.  Liam bites at his knuckles, tearing his eyes away because he _can’t_ and he remembers he _won’t_ , not for the next few days.  But he hears Kings of Leon hummed across Harry’s lips – _Gonna open my heart, right at the scars. Listen up_.

“Need my copy of _Brightest Day_ before we take off, yeah?” Zayn says, his voice stretched like his smile and Liam nods a little offhandedly, sinking into the plush seats that come attached to things like first class and posh.

He swallows – _I tried all the way. Wait for me, wait for me. It’s all better now_ – and he lets Zayn scurry out of his seat toward the compartment his bag is stored in.  He takes in a breath of stale cabin air and Niall nearly turns all the way around in his seat in front of them with a hiked up grin that feels dangerous.

Liam hums at him, arching a careful eyebrow and Niall shrugs back at him.

“I always thought you two would be a noisy shag.  Like, completely ridiculous with it and I bet he’d make you loud Li,” Niall says with a straight face as if it’s not completely mad or something.  He’s shameless with a smile and Liam hates him.

He _physically_ hates Niall Horan for at least thirty seconds and a lack of a comeback.

There’s a noise that’s choked at the back of Liam’s throat and his eyes are large when Niall turns back around just as Zayn fits himself back into the seat next to Liam.  He’s gasping silently for more air, a supply of oxygen that leaves him a little panicked when Zayn’s hand rests on his thigh.

“Read with me,” Zayn requests, turning through the introduction and he fits the graphic novel into Liam’s lap with a grin, head already bowing before Liam can say, _no, get that off my hard cock before I nut off in these damn Calvin Klein’s_ and _Niall is a complete arsehole_.

He chokes out a quiet _yes_ instead and wipes sweaty palms on the side of his jeans while Zayn’s reads off the words softly under the roar of the plane’s engine.

**

Turbulence is unjust and two years ago, when they all decided it was a brilliant idea to hop in a van to drive to Newcastle for the Killers and Brandon Flowers’ voice, it was Zayn who comforted Harry when he got motion sickness.  A hand on the small of his back, a damp t-shirt, and Harry wretched out McDonald’s from two hours before along the highway while Louis’ sung enthusiastically along to Journey – _Just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit_.  Louis was no Steve Perry and Zayn whispered soft, comforting words into Harry’s ear until he could bare the last leg of the drive with his head on Zayn’s shoulder and Zayn reaching across the back of Liam’s chair to tangle fingers into Liam’s curls.

Liam thinks of this when the plane rocks and shakes and everything is as dark as the ocean floor when Zayn’s eyes go wide.  Liam wonders how many more firsts he’ll be there for when it comes to Zayn, watching the way the other boy trembles and looks around like _this is it, we’re gonna die_.  It stirs something unhealthy and cold in Liam’s stomach, the way Zayn’s pale and sweaty and biting down so hard on his bottom lip that it splits just a little.

A soft jerk of the plane and Zayn looks ready to cry, tightening his safety belt until Liam thinks there’s no circulation moving through his bottom half.

“It’s okay,” Liam whispers, leaning closer and trying not to frown at the way Zayn jerks back, terrified.  “It’s just a little – “

“You hear that all of the time,” Zayn says, breathless and still shaking, “right before the plane fucking _crashes_.”

Liam doesn’t want to find it humorous, the way Zayn anything but dramatic except when it comes to things he’s fearful of like losing his voice, not being able to draw, Jay Z retiring _again_ , or flying.

It’s a conscious decision – at least he tells himself that but he doesn’t think he could do anything else with Zayn’s eyes so wide and that bottom lip split and fingers digging painfully into his own thighs like _hold on tight, this is going to_ _hurt_ – when he reaches across the divide to snatch up Zayn’s hand.  He pushes his fingers between Zayn’s, ignoring the bite of Zayn’s dull nails against his knuckles, to steady the other boy before leaning in close enough that their foreheads touch and Liam can name the brand of peppermint gum Zayn’s been chewing for the last hour.

“Remember how much you wanted to see _Green Lantern_ when it first came out?” Liam asks, his voice calm and slow and everything he associates with _‘be still my beating heart.’_

Zayn nods, or he tries to but it doesn’t work with them this close, sucking at his bottom lip now until the scarlet blood recedes and the flesh is shiny.

“It was shit and – “

“And you only liked the bits with Sinestro because Ryan Reynolds was a _joke_ as Hal Jordan,” Liam finishes with a goofy smile like he can still taste the butter and salt from the popcorn or the cherry slushy Zayn pushed into his hand.

“Should’ve done it with Kyle Raynor,” Zayn mumbles, the corners of his mouth lifting just a little.

Liam snorts, shaking with the plane but he holds Zayn’s eyes.  He draws their hands up until his lips catch on Zayn’s knuckles and it’s quiet for a long stretch without the emergency lights hollowing out the cabin.

“But you were so hopeful for a sequel, mate,” Liam tells him, his voice bloody warm with the excitement that floods Zayn’s eyes.

“More Sinestro and the yellow ring and – “

“ _Star Sapphire_ , for fuck’s sake,” Liam grins out, everything about Zayn’s face washing over boyish and gentle.  He’s sixteen and completely in love with Nolan’s adaptation of _Year One_ , even though they argue for hours over Jonathan Crane and fucking Rachel Dawes was a complete waste.

“You would’ve seen it with me, right?”  Lips lift higher and higher.

“Yeah, babe,” Liam says a little shockingly because that doesn’t _feel_ like his voice, so sweet and bloody over the moon, but it _sounds_ like it when Zayn’s smile is hidden behind their hands, “Five times if you wanted.”

The pressure feels thin and he’s suffocating on the way Zayn’s teeth nip at his knuckles for another wave of turbulence that he senses in his chest rather than his stomach.  Everything is louder now, like when you ears pop upon takeoff, and he feels restless.  He feels his bones through his skin but he stays perfectly still until Zayn’s breathing goes from _terminal velocity_ to _quiet beats before slumber_.

He lowers their hands, not his eyes, and he doesn’t let go of Zayn’s fingers through the rest of the smooth flight.  He can’t find a reason to and Zayn keeps smiling, even in his sleep, like this is how he defines _friendship_ and _bliss_ and _Liam Payne_.

Liam thinks it’s numbing and he’s wasted on the way Zayn’s thumb traces over his skin and how he squeezes Zayn’s fingers just a little when the flight attendants promise they’ll land soon.

Soon is too far away in his head, but he refuses to let Zayn’s hand leave his own.

**

There’s nothing like this: the rush of noise, the streets a flood of constantly moving bodies and slow moving taxis, the lights like bursting neon stars beneath a neatly woven navy sky.  Everything flashes like the colorful spectrum of a fireworks show and it’s the tallest buildings he’s ever seen with billboards that say sex, sex, music, and _better_ sex.  Plastic cups of beer, the air lit with cigarette smoke and the thundering roar of laughter like every inhabitant of these streets is drunk on euphoria.

 _Hedonism_ , Harry once explained when they were seventeen and sipping stolen bottles of Fuller’s London Pride with Zayn’s nimble fingers trapped in his springy curls.

The air tastes thick with heat – the kind that slicks your skin with a nice sheen of sweat but it’s far from being uncomfortable and wearing.  There’s crowds of people kissing each corner of the long strip, shoulder to shoulder, dizzy smiles and drunken giggles.  It’s a blur of New York, New York and Planet Hollywood and the Flamingo lights up in swirling beams of electric green and thundering pinks.  There’s a mass of people disappearing down a broken down scene toward the Quad Resort and Niall lets out a howl when a truck drives by advertising death-defying exotic dancer shows down the Strip.  There’s a flood of guys from corner to corner passing out laminated flyers for naked girls and sex shows and all the things his mum used to warn him about when it came to places like Las Vegas.

He grins, tips his head back to let the lights and quiet breeze and eroticism swallow him for a few seconds – _Don’t call it a fight when you know it’s a war with nothing but your t-shirt on_.

They’re right across the thick road from the Venetian and Casino Royale and Treasure Island is lit with whites and reds and a sea salt smell that he likes.  Harry’s tugging off his fedora to swipe long fingers through his curls with a grin while Niall slips on a pair of pink-framed Aviators he bought off some bird at the airport when they arrived even though the sun is faded off in a corner of the sky.  He can spot the Stratosphere in the background of a hazy sky, too tall with its needle point and blue lights.  The Luxor is neatly placed in a corner down the other end of the Strip with its pyramid shape and all the stars winking off its dark, dark glass windows.

Liam soaks in Zayn’s grin, the way he’s rubbing at his bottom lip like he can’t breathe it all in at once – _And go sit on the bed because you know that you want to. You’ve got pretty eyes but I know you’re wrong_.  It pricks along Liam’s skin, the way Zayn rushes up to him to point out all of the art built into the massive structures and the code of colors that pinwheel like this is better than Van Gough and Dalí.

Louis is lit up like the Mirage next door, folding and unfolding a map he picked up at the airport, smelling like original bubblegum and sweet cologne as he sidles up to Liam’s other side.  It’s shock and awe and he thinks of smoking joints in Louis’ basement while watching _the Hangover_ for the _fifth_ time just to hear – _So you can wipe off the grin, I know where you’ve been_ – with Zayn pressed into his side and his arm strewn around Louis’ strong shoulders.

“Frank Marino’s _Divas_ ,” Louis squeals, blue eyes shining like a kaleidoscope of newborn stars, “and Absinthe is a must.  Who’s going to Marc Savard with me?”

“Chippendales,” Harry grins into Niall’s ear, cheeks flushed a dull pink and Niall’s barking out a laugh that echoes just below the roar of convertibles with their tops down and SUVs tracing the broken white lines down the streets.

“No Celine,” Zayn warns, squaring his jaw and looking completely serious like _don’t you dare_.

Louis pouts, shoulders dropping.  “You _promised_.”

“Did not.”

“Twat,” Louis hisses before pointing out an advertisement for Michael Jackson’s ONE that has both he and Liam grinning dreamily.

“Just point me towards the best bars,” Harry boasts, the bass of his grin indenting his dimple and Liam hears – _and don’t call it a spade if it isn’t a spade_ – over everything else.

“You lot have no idea,” Niall grins, hooking an arm with Zayn, tipping his head back.  “The last time I was here – “

“You shagged _three_ birds and won close to five hundred quid,” Louis sighs, unimpressed.  “We get it.”

Niall shrugs, his Chicago Bulls snapback pushing down his fluffy hair into a carousel of white-blonde and dark roots.  “Spent half of that in vodka and Hennessy.”

Harry makes a face and Zayn smirks, leaning more into Liam until his hair brushes the side of Liam’s face and all he wants is cinnamon-scented tea and an afternoon of _Superman Returns_ while on Zayn’s bed.

“I prefer tequila these days,” Louis hums, kicking his dusty white Vans – that Zayn’s decorated in goofy smiles with a Sharpie while waiting on their luggage – at Niall’s high top trainers with a smirk.

“You would,” Niall teases, reaching out to tug his fingers through Louis’ brown hair, nicking his beanie before Louis can whine about it all.  He slips it into his back pocket before adding, “Didn’t you get sick on Haz’s mum’s favorite linen after a night of Don Julio and – “

“Best blowjob ever,” Harry says cheekily and Louis’ flipping him off while biting down on a grin that’s almost nonexistent.

“Gross.”

“No more chats about their sex life,” Zayn insists, tugging at the hem of Liam’s shirt like _protect me_ , Liam’s arm instinctively going around Zayn’s back.

“What sex life?” Louis says before Harry can and the silence that fills the void feels like midnight at the tip of Cheshire – too cold.

Liam wades in the desert heat with a small smile, listening to Zayn go on about the structure of Caesar’s Palace – _The first bit of advice that you gave me that I liked is that they’re too strong, too strong_ – while Niall pulls out a stack of US dollars to pay the cabbie.  None of them are completely comfortable with Niall’s incessant need to pay for almost _everything_ – Liam insisted on paying for his own hotel room, Zayn’s too after a little convincing because he’s worked hard through both terms at a coffee shop for this trip – but Liam thinks maybe its Niall’s way of making it up to all of them.  His _‘I’m sorry’_ because the worst part of them knows Niall left when he didn’t know what to do with his parents divorced and his brother went back home and Niall’s never been good at figuring life out.  He left those kind of things to Harry or Zayn and _escapism_ is a word Liam had to learn the hard way when it came to Niall.

There’s a roar of applause and cheers when the volcano show at the Mirage starts up that distracts Liam just enough that he misses when Zayn smiles into his neck, chapped lips explaining the visual concepts of the Aria and the Italian framework of the Palazzo.  His fingertips map out the nobs and dents of Zayn’s spine – _Yeah, you wanna find love, then you know where the city is_ – while breathing in vanilla and coastal firewood as he bites mercilessly at his bottom lip.  There’s a collection of something sweet in his chest like fairy dust and, _fuck you Louis Tomlinson_ , these thoughts are overpowering in the most imperfect way.

He leans back enough to catch the way Harry’s secretly smiling at Louis like – _you make me feel like I’m living a teenage dream, the way you turn me on_ – and he doesn’t think Louis ever got tired of that song.  It slides down his throat like acid, the way Harry immediately looks away when their eyes meet, lips forming apologies his heart doesn’t agree with.

“Need a drink,” Harry mutters, tugging his suitcases toward the front entrance and he looks clumsy and withered and fucking _drowning_ when Louis gives him a sheepish look.

“Know some fantastic bars, mate,” Niall declares, slinging an arm around Zayn’s shoulders that knocks Liam away and Zayn grins at Niall with a scrunched up nose that betrays that warmth he displayed with Liam.

“Music’s not too loud, yeah?” Louis requests because when he drinks, he likes it mellow.  When he parties, he likes it spectacularly rough with echoing bass and a treble that stomps down your spine.

“Everyt’ing is loud in Vegas,” Niall says offhandedly, biting at Zayn’s shoulder until he’s a fit of giggles.

Liam tenses and jealousy has an interesting taste – bitter and acidic but the burn is worth it.

“Cheap booze, Ni,” Harry bellows out like _fuck the revolution_ and he’s slipping on those Wayfarers from earlier with his fedora sitting lopsided over his curls.  “Loads of pretty girls and cheap booze.”

“I promise.”

Zayn snorts, sliding on his Louis Vuitton backpack before blindly reaching back and Liam doesn’t know why he lifts his hand like it’s what Zayn is looking for but he hides his smile when Zayn tangles their fingers together.

“Whatever,” Louis sighs, bumping past Harry to lead the way and Niall whispers, “They’ll be fucking by day two.”

“Doubtful,” Liam says with a one off laugh that feels alien.  He hopes, for Harry, they’ll be shagging in an hour or madly in love in a month.

He doubts both.

When the concierge passes them their key cards and makes promises of a wonderful stay that feels so put on even Liam shoots him an incredulous look, Louis shoves by them with his bags in tow and a mumbled, “If you’re staying, ‘m getting the bed.  You take one of the couches.”

Harry bites down on a frown, narrowing once bright green eyes before sighing.

“Tommo,” Zayn calls out, trying to drag his bags toward the elevators, “be fair.”

“ _Be ready_ in an hour,” Louis demands when the doors ping open and they crowd into the small box that has Niall a little tense – _claustrophobia_ , he learns, is a very caging fear that Niall says you can never truly get over – with Louis and Harry on opposite sides.

“You’re horrible,” Zayn mutters, tugging on the strap of his backpack while Liam leans against Harry with apologetic eyes.

“’m realistic.”

“In a very inappropriate way,” Niall notes but no one has ever voted Louis top man in the congeniality department.

“Are we gonna spend my whole trip to Vegas whining about the fact that Harry and I are no longer shagging or are we gonna get me drunk?” Louis wonders loudly and the sound of his voice – thick with annoyance and something that resembles pain – echoes against the cheap wood on the metal walls.

“I vote for not talking about you shagging,” Liam offers up and Zayn’s the only one who laughs, a wheezing sound that flutters against the back of Liam’s neck.

“Me too.”

“You don’t count,” Louis teases Niall and they’re throwing fake fists that never connect until the elevator doors open up on Zayn and Liam’s floor, Niall the next floor up – “Because, honestly, I _had_ to book a suite for myself.  I’m a high roller here, lads.” – and Harry and Louis the floor above Niall’s.

He wonders, for a second, if he should offer up the extra space on his own bed for Harry to lie in but Harry seems resigned to waging this war with Louis until one of them gives in to catch an early flight home.  He ponders how much extra they’ll all be charged to get the blood stains out of the Egyptian cotton sheets lining the bed of that suite.

“Let me borrow a shirt off you, yeah?” Zayn asks, leaning against the wall opposite Liam’s door.

Liam grins over his shoulder, taking in Zayn’s fucked out hair and his gold eyes with the scruff on his cheeks and he inhales quickly.  _Just a mate_ , he thinks, fumbling with his keycard in that stupid slot while waiting for the light to turn green.

“You have plenty,” Liam teases, jerking his head toward the littering of bags just near Zayn’s feet and, honestly, Zayn always over-packs for things like this.  It’s sweet and adorable and, no, Zayn’s _not_ vain but he sort of is.

“I want one of yours,” Zayn whines, kicking the heel of his trainer against the wall and there’s flashes of pink tongue pressing against his white teeth when he smiles, “ _please_.”

Liam sighs, a mocking sound that’s just a prelude to his own smirk before he nods.  “If you let me borrow some of your hair wax.”

His grin sits up sideways, shadowy scruff lining his mouth and Liam has to look at the floor for a moment to disguise the way the blush sits low on his cheeks.

“You look better without it,” Zayn remarks, pushing off the wall and he’s reaching out to thread his fingers through Liam’s loose tuft of hair.  “At least, I think so.”

“I don’t.”

“S’okay,” Zayn whispers, snickering before tugging ever so slightly – fuck, he wants those fingers in his hair when he’s on his knees with the carpet burning his skin and, wait, _what_? – before Zayn’s hand rests on his shoulder.  “Let me clean up and meet you back here?”

Liam nods, kicking open his door and he has to breathe in fresh linen and soap to air out that feeling in his lungs that burns like tropical heat.

Zayn’s stubble catches on his earlobe when he leans in, grinning, to whisper, “A nice button down one will do, yeah?  Or that Iron Man one you bought back in June right after – “

Liam makes a startled noise that draws up a small chuckle from Zayn before he can finish and the fingertips pressed against the dimples in his back set everything on fire.  He’s shaking in the doorway when Zayn drags his bags down the hall, too many doors away from Liam’s and he doesn’t find his footing for another ten seconds – and _sixteen_ breaths; he counts – before he stumbles into his room to fall face first on the bed with his cock curved up toward his belly.  He doesn’t think about wanking off before a shower to the thought of Zayn and those fingers lower, lower, just between his cheeks and right there on the hole until he… _fuck_.

He thinks he can book he and Harry an early flight home before he stains these sheets a sticky white and Harry drinks away the pain.

**

It starts off at the bar in the Treasure Island casino, in the center of the lobby right next to the electronic slot machines where Harry wins five dollars and Louis loses twenty in three minutes.  He toasts Tequila Sunrises with Louis because, well, he’s game while Harry and Niall drain half a bottle of Jack Daniels that’s chased with fizzy Cokes.  Harry loses spectacularly at Black Jack – “You don’t know when to stay,” Louis tells him and Liam thinks Harry wants to say he doesn’t know when to go – while Zayn sips on Corona’s with lime wedges stuffed into the lip of the bottle.

“The decadence is charming,” Louis announces two drinks and a shot of Jose later with layered laughter like he knows fuck it all what he’s talking about.

Harry’s slicing through a whiskey with far too much ice and the drinks are pricey here but Liam is sort of in love with the atmosphere and the leather chairs that are plushy, comfortable.  He’s buzzing off of cheap tequila and orange juice but the scent of Zayn’s cologne and after shave – his cheeks are boyish now with just small bits of stubble outlining his jaw and chin – is heady, entrancing.  Niall’s chatting up some curvy, green-eyed bird with tie-dye hair and a skirt that barely touches the middle of her thighs.

“Sweet rapture,” Zayn whispers with a giggle, sipping on his beer with fingers on the nape of Liam’s neck and Liam thinks he’d prefer Zayn cuddled into his lap right now rather than perched on the arm of the chair Liam’s occupying.

Stupid thoughts, watered down alcohol.  His veins are on fire and he smiles goofily up at Zayn like _can I waste my life away with you?_

Harry’s begging the bartender for sections of mandarin even though they all know the sweet taste won’t sit well with another glass of Jack but Louis encourages it like he wants Harry kissing the floor before the next bar.  Zayn nicks his drink halfway to the bottom, drinking down grenadine and tequila while feeding Liam the cherry.  He’s not certain what is sweeter – the alcohol-soaked maraschino or the tips of Zayn’s fingers which taste like cigarette smoke and the salt from the crisps he was eating in the elevator on the way down and those little candies he loves that taste like sugar, sugar, _fuck_ – but his tongue plays teasingly along Zayn’s index finger until the curve of Zayn’s mouth when he smiles is distinct and memorable.

Niall’s snogging the rainbow bright girl in a corner of the bar with her too red lipstick staining the rim of his glass and a hand in her hair when Louis flops into Liam’s lap, knocking Zayn off balance.

“You know I’ve always loved you, yes?” Louis asks, eyes a little glassy and lips sticky from orange juice.

Liam laughs nervously, peeking over his shoulder to catch Harry leaning on the bar with a bottled Coke and a shot glass filled with orange slices.  He settles a hand on the small of Louis’ back to steady him and Zayn’s grumbling something like, _‘fuck you, you little shit’_ in the background.

“You were always my favorite,” Louis sings out, tugging his fingers through Liam’s hair until the product Zayn carefully teased through it earlier doesn’t matter anymore.  “Well, after Zaynie, of course.  But before Haz.”

 _Haz_ , he thinks, grinning.  It’s been too long since Louis’ bothered to address Harry that way, or _any_ way, actually.

“Hey, no playing favorites,” Zayn tuts, chasing a new beer with a glass of cranberry juice.  “Rule number one.”

“Rule _thirteen_ , actually,” Louis hisses and Liam grins because they’ve always lived by this stupid code of conduct when it came to friendships and relationships and life.  The idiosyncrasies of Louis and Zayn, defined in the most complicated fashion.

“And, please, we both know Liam’s been your favorite since age fourteen and – “

Zayn throws a quick hand over Louis’ mouth, words sputtered and muffled against long fingers and Zayn’s grinning shyly while gulping down half of his beer.  Liam’s distracted by the bob of his Adam’s apple and music filters through the casino to the sound of that girl’s moans and Harry’s groans – _Hey now, call it a spliff ‘cause you know that you will. Oh you bite your friend like chocolate._   He can’t help the way he looks at Zayn fondly like he missed that part at seventeen when all he wanted was to smell Zayn’s honey-scented body wash and watch Zayn smoke through two cigarettes after six chapters of _the Goblet of Fire_.

“Lou needs another drink,” Zayn says, bitten down smile that Liam admires for minutes before his heart restarts on its usual one-two pattern.

He sucks in a small breath that feels like _more_ under his skin and wanders over his bones like _can I drink you in_.

His sister Ruth once told him he’s too cheesy to ever win over a girl’s heart.  Nicola told him it’s okay if he loves boys like she does because he’ll always be a little prat to her, boy or girl to fall in love with.  His mum told him she loves Harry but she adores Zayn like her own and, just before Uni, none of this made sense to him but he hated the taste of _goodbye_ on his lips when Zayn hugged him tightly and kissed his cheek.

It still doesn’t make sense but he bites down on its meaning when Zayn flashes him something wickedly tender in his smile.

“C’mon lads,” Niall announces with a hollowed out laugh and his lips swollen and red.  He drops a heavy hand on Zayn’s shoulder for a small squeeze, Harry hugging him from behind before he adds, “On to the next one.”

He tries not to giggle when Zayn whispers Jay-Z into his ear, chapped smile stroking the shell, as he casually lifts Louis from his lap and reaches behind Niall to drag Harry with him through the revolving doors into the city.

It’s peach margaritas – an acquired taste, he learns – with Louis just outside of the Quad and the bartenders are tossing glasses and bottles in the air like professional jugglers.  Harry’s moved onto Jack Daniels Black mixed with cranberry and lime juices while Niall nurses a Bud Light and some sweet redhead’s lips, fingers tucked into the back of her jeans to pull at her neon pink knickers.  Zayn’s curling an arm around his neck, laughing into his ear, sipping slowly on Cîroc with pineapple juice because he’s into hip hop formalities these days.

“Think he’s sorted out whether or not to bring ‘er back to our hotel?” Louis wonders, hiccupping through a better brand of tequila and salted rims while Liam laughs into his knuckles.

He sighs happily, ordering up a Blue Moon with an orange wedge for Harry before licking salt and sugar from his lips.  He shrugs offhandedly, circling an arm around Zayn’s back and drawing him closer.

“Doubt it,” Liam says, broken off laugh faded into Zayn’s chest and his fingers burn right at the center as they stumble up Zayn’s back, trying to push through the thin material of Liam’s Iron Man t-shirt.

“It’s all fun and games until someone gets pregnant!” Louis barks out, ducking behind Liam’s wide shoulders when Niall steals his lips away from hers and scowls at them.

Zayn snorts a laugh into Liam’s hair and Liam’s fingers tighten around Zayn’s waist to keep himself from falling off the metal bar stool.  Louis’ dizzying giggles warm his back and he mouths out half a verse of Drake into Zayn’s shoulder before finishing off the rest of his drink.

“She wanted to blow me behind one of the booths,” Niall declares when he stumbles up to them, half-lidded eyes still flame blue and he’s listing off round after round of shots for them with her marks on his neck and angry red scratch marks over his pale arm.

“Way to go Nialler,” Zayn cheers, snatching Liam’s shot before he can smell it, whiffing off the fumes before swallowing it back like a right expert.

Liam feels the burn for him, Zayn’s fingers digging into his shoulder like _help me_ and _never again_.  He laughs into Zayn’s chest, lips catching on a nipple and his cock plumps up a little at the idea of tracing his tongue around a nipple and…

He orders up a water and another beer before Zayn notices the tent in his jeans or before Louis can remind him that cheeks are not naturally this pink.

“Slip her the number?” Louis inquires, licking salt from the back of his hand before downing his own shot, gagging at the fire that crackles down his throat.

“Slipped her a finger in her cunt,” Niall replies with half a shrug and Louis’ sputtering as Zayn groans, Liam balking because Niall’s not the same kid who could barely ask Caroline out for a date three weeks after she broke up with Harry – not that Harry hadn’t already moved his sights toward Louis, but still – without stuttering through half of his words.

Zayn retreats snickers into the crook of Liam’s neck and he swallows his beer carefully when Niall looks at him patiently with an expectant grin.  He salutes him with a middle finger and Zayn’s sharp scruff tearing at the flesh of his neck.  It leaves him warm and lightheaded and the lack of oxygen in these streets is becoming very apparent.

He can taste Captain Morgan’s – spicy and sweet – and Coke on his tongue at some dive just outside of the Flamingo and Harry’s moved onto Irish whiskey followed by Guinness Draught because Niall is a horrible influence on him.  Zayn’s chasing him around the bar with wild laughter because Liam tried to trip him up on the way to the loo and they catch each other before some burly security guard threatens to toss them out, arms folded and menacing with small eyes.

Niall’s mapping out his name across the neck of some emo girl with long black hair, too many piercings, chunky combat boots like the kind Zayn wears, and striped leggings that go mid-thigh and have _Hello Kitty_ threaded across them.  Louis’ downing shots of Sauza this time – Niall keeps ordering them up like Louis’ holding his own but every other step, he stumbles with a giggle – and singing loudly along to something that rings vaguely last summer – _Some nights I stay up cashing in my bad luck. Some nights I call it a draw. Some nights I wish that my lips could build a castle_.

He’s breathless from running and laughing but adrenaline compels him as he circles arms around Zayn’s back, arms flexing to lift him up.  They spin with Zayn’s feet in the air for a few turns, Liam dizzy and giddy before he lowers Zayn, keeping him tight and close.  Their noses brush softly, the poor lighting of the bar tossing eyelash-shaped shadows over his cheeks.  He swallows on a thick breath of air and Zayn’s eyes are lit up.  He’s got that sideways smile and _alive_ – this is what it feels like to be alive again.

Zayn bites down on his lip, nervous and so contemplative like maybe he could kiss Liam.  Liam thinks he’d kiss back, hard and rough and it’s too much of a fantasy.  It’s too much like those stupid teen films where the guy finally gets it and the girl lets him win.

He doesn’t know Nicholas Sparks and the tattoos decorating Zayn’s arm remind him that Zayn’s no Rachel McAdams.

He breathes in half of Zayn’s wasted oxygen, grinning, and their foreheads touch before Liam confesses, “I’ve always wanted to go to Nice.  Paris maybe.”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow – _But I still wake up; I still see your ghost_ – with a smirk, fingers running just over the prickly clipped hairs on the side of Liam’s head.

Liam blinks at him, feeling stupid and rushed with fear, but his fingers dig into Zayn’s back with a _please don’t go just yet_.

“The Parthenon, maybe the ruins of old Rome,” Zayn whispers, still smiling, still letting his heart beat so frantically against Liam’s own chest.  “Like the design and the culture and, like I think the art would be amazing.”

 _You’re amazing_ , Liam thinks, hushing the words down, down his throat until they stop tasting like bile and _wrong_.  It’s just wrong.

 _Just mates_ , on repeat, drumming through his mind.

He lets Zayn go, heaving on still unsteady breaths and when Niall passes him a rum and Coke and something resembling _I’m sorry_ , he tosses it back right along with his own disappointment.

“He’ll be okay,” Niall says, quiet and he sounds like _clarity_ until Liam realizes he’s not talking about Louis, but Harry.

Harry who’s across the bar, circling the rim of his glass with a pointed finger and something weak in his eyes as he watches Louis dance around with complete strangers.  Long sips of something watered down and strong that’ll smell toxic come morning.  Disheveled curls from pulling too sharply on them through the night and narrowed green eyes so no one catches the somber just around the edges.

Just a little reminder that falling _in_ love is much easier than falling _out_ and he catches Zayn across the bar, flopping down next to Harry with a smirk and a protective arm going around Harry’s shoulders like – _and some nights I’m scared you’ll forget me again_.

“We’ll all be okay,” Liam breathes out, the bite of rum firmer than the Coke before he drops his eyes on Niall.  “Right?”

Niall nods quickly but confidence has never been Niall’s strong point.  It just flickers, here and there, until Liam forces himself to believe his own words.  He swallows, finding Zayn’s eyes over a long stretch of bar and empty glasses and they share a smile like, yeah, they _will_ be.

“He’d be perfect for you if – “

Liam shakes his head quickly, lips cold and trembling from the ice in his glass.  He knocks his shoulder against Niall’s, smirking because it feels fitting.  He grazes his fingers over Niall’s pale skin, purple bruises already forming from that one brunette back at the Mirage who liked Red Bull and vodka and stuffing a hand down Niall’s boxers.

“We’ve got enough to fix, yeah?  No need to muck up more friendships,” Liam declares.  It hurts on the way up but he doesn’t mind the way Niall nods weakly and blinks starry night blue eyes at him for assurance.

They grin at each other when Louis wedges between them with alcohol on his breath, sweat leaving his clothes damp, and the kind of offbeat smile that reminds them of fifteen and _Sixteen Candles_ on a Friday night after the rugby match.

**

“Y’know,” Zayn starts with glassy hazel eyes and a sideways smirk running over perfectly pink lips.

Liam’s leaning in the doorway of his room with his shirt hanging off the edge of his bed and the top button of his jeans already undone.  Coronas and cherry-flavored vodka at Planet Hollywood was a smashing idea; Jagger and Monsters at New York, New York were not.  He’s a little sticky from sweat and buzzing from _shots and more shots_ being chanted by Zayn and Louis all down the Strip, his smile just as lazy as Zayn’s.  His fingers play beneath the hem of Zayn’s shirt, the one he wants to take back just to see the tattoos etched across Zayn’s collarbones, the center of his chest but he settles for trying to tease across the _don’t think I won’t_ and blocky heart on his hips.

His toes dig into the carpet of his room, twiddle over the toe of Zayn’s trainers and he can hear Niall groaning as he tries to keep Harry balanced on one side of the elevator with Louis on the floor, knees drawn up and promising _‘no more tequila until I’m thirty and married with_ nine _kids.’_   He can’t help the giggle on his lips, Zayn trading off glances between them and Liam’s eyes, half-lidded and dark.

Zayn bites down on his lip, a silky shyness that Liam tries not to mirror but he can’t help it.  They’ve always been vulnerable and quiet and like this.

Simple and _like this_.

“I’m jealous of you.”

Liam blinks at him, shock running up his spine.  He tilts his head a little, hating the way Niall’s snapback fits on Zayn’s head and hides that fallen quiff and thick fringe.

“Why?”

Zayn shrugs, dragging a foot over the carpeted hallway, the corner of his lip a new territory his teeth stake claim to.

He breathes out a heavy breath and Liam watches the way Zayn looks up through his long, long lashes before he mutters, “You’re everything I wish I could’ve been.”

Liam sinks teeth into his own dry lip, fingers tightening around Zayn’s hipbone until – _bruises_ , he knows he’ll leave bruises behind.  His thumb strokes the skin apologetically but his eyes beat out a call for help when Zayn’s lips twitch into a smile.

“Or everything I wish I could’ve had,” Zayn admits, his voice husky and thick with drowsiness.  “Everything I wish I would’ve gotten in a relationship.  Or out of someone I care for, like that.”

“Like that,” Liam repeats, deep and his heart is matted to the bones of his ribs.

Zayn nods, snorting.  He swallows, inhale driven by each exhale.  “Like I don’t know.  Y’know it’s just something I think about.  It’s weird, innit?”

 _No_ , Liam thinks but his tongue is heavy and the world closes in on them until he thinks he shares Niall’s fear of small fucking spaces.

He nudges his thumb to Zayn’s stomach muscles, loving the way they flutter and ripple beneath his skin.  It’s addictive and he doesn’t know why his fingers slip over the waistband of Zayn’s briefs but he wonders if the dye of the black fabric will stain his skin.

Zayn hiccups out something that’s vague and unheard but the smile that follows, sharp curves to his mouth and white teeth doing little to hide a pink tongue, floats the alcohol in Liam’s blood stream to every little pinpoint of conscious thinking.  His fingers shift across skin – hotter still and he thinks Zayn is smoldering – until he can trace out his name and Zayn giggles like the airy touches tickle.

“Thank you,” Zayn presses out, leaning in, closer still until the corner of his mouth brushes Liam’s ear for a quiet, “babe.”

Liam’s fingers slide down the groove of Zayn’s spine to hold him in place and dry lips press a chaste kiss to his cheek – they’ve all been doing this for years, something Louis started, with kisses to the cheek like overly affectionate little brothers.  He lets the inhale of Zayn’s scent – fading cinnamon, hot like desert humidity – prickle his lungs before Zayn presses a firmer kiss there, lips catching on stubble this time.

“Alright, alright,” Niall laughs out and Zayn’s stumbling back into his arms, hands holding Zayn’s chest before he falls and Liam hates the separation.  It feels like imitation gravity but he doesn’t fight Niall for possession of Zayn’s body like he’s a toy.

Zayn whines, mock pout on his lips before he willingly presses his back to Niall’s chest and stumbles down the hallway with him.

“C’mere Romeo,” Niall snickers, patting Zayn’s hip for his keycard and they’re tripping over the carpet toward Zayn’s room before _‘goodnight’_ and _‘you can stay with me, I’ll keep you warm’_ lift off of Liam’s tongue.  He leans into the doorway, watching, careful eyes making sure Niall doesn’t damage Zayn as he leans that wiry body up against the wall and forces open his door.

Their eyes meet for just a second more – hazel to honey, the ocean to the haloing round moon – and Liam’s breathing hitches when Zayn’s smile goes wide until his nose wrinkles and his eyes are small slits of pure elation.

The ache of his heart behind a cage tingles down to his toes and he’s wide-eyed when Niall looks at him fondly with that smile that says, _‘love in a war is still love, you little fuck.’_

He watches the empty hall for another few minutes, hoping Harry is okay and Louis finds sleep and Niall remembers to wear a condom with whatever bird he’s invited up from the hotel lobby.  He watches the bright lights lining the walls and the swirl of colors on the carpet until a hand cups his crotch to adjust himself.  The dull nail of his thumb scratches at his torso and everything that was normal and patterned in shattered like glass.

He doesn’t sleep for two hours after that because Zayn’s name is sitting on his tongue and his scent is stuck to Liam’s skin.

**

The sun sits dense and gleaming between the landscape of endless mountains and the mile after mile of endless blue.  The clouds are sparse and everything about Las Vegas feels hot, promising.  He felt it through his window in the morning, between those thin sheets they call curtains here and this place is nothing like home where it’s never too warm to wear a nice jumper or a pair of sweats.  The glow warmed his back, tangled naked in soft, soft sheets with morning wood and sweat matting down his hair the least of his concerns.

There was something buoyant against his bones when he woke, the after effects of too much to drink and loud music and long stretches of people flooding the streets and fingers – _Zayn’s fingers_ – wear off in the shower and he’s buzzing on a different high just after nine in the morning.  It’s the kind that tingles over his fingertips and pushes something warm, intangible in his chest until he thinks _alive_ and _fearless_ should be the next pieces of ink stitched into his skin.

The carpet is cold under his bare feet down the hall and his knuckles bang heavy against Zayn’s door for ten strikes – and a nice round of ‘Shave and a haircut,’ even lighter for _‘Heart and Soul’_ mixed with _‘Chopsticks’_ because they both love _Big_ and Tom Hanks – before Zayn tugs it open with dark circles under his eyes and day older stubble shadowing his face.  His eyes are squinted brown, hair standing tall and fluffed but there’s something softer rounding his face when he takes in Liam.

“G’morning,” Liam cheers, laughing and playfully patting the side of Zayn’s face until the scruff scratches his palm.  “Breakfast at Lou and Harry’s?”

Zayn yawns, looking sheepish and worn when his brow knits together but his dry lips part for a smile and a small nod.

“Wan’ sleep some more,” Zayn whines, puckering out a pout that Liam half-believes is real.  He drags shaky fingers through thick hair and Liam reaches out to cover his hand, aid Zayn in styling that soft hair into something resembling normal – by _Zayn_ standards, of course.

Liam strokes a thumb across Zayn’s neck, fingers over his Adam’s apple, resting quietly against his collarbone – he hopes the ink sticks to his fingers and he forever remembers _‘be true to who you are.’_

“Eat first, sleep later,” Liam says with a lifted grin he doesn’t think he’ll ever grow tired of now.

Zayn sighs, scrubbing fingers through his hair again.  “ _Leeyum_.”

Liam smirks, purposeful, and Zayn’s skin is warm under his hand.  It’s thriving and Liam runs fingers over Zayn’s bare shoulder until Zayn leans into the touch for seconds too long.  Everything inside of him accelerates because Zayn’s looking at him like _love_ and _adoration_ and _you give me meaning_ aren’t just words.

He hates Louis and Niall and Harry and himself because being under the influence never felt as intoxicating as realizing that the biggest part of him wants Zayn to be more than a mate, if just for one stupid trip to Vegas.

“C’mon,” Liam laughs out nervously, fingers finding the groove of Zayn’s hip and he wonders if that flushed skin is hiding the imprints from last night.

Zayn rolls his eyes but smiles affectionately, kicking at Liam’s toes.  “ _Leeyum_.”

“Babe,” Liam slips out, trying to choke it back but he can’t and Zayn, fuck it, looks at him owlishly for a second or two before he’s smiling so small, a three year old waiting on an ice cream cone.

Shyness rounds Zayn’s eyes and Liam can barely make it out from the way Zayn’s looking up at him through those damn lashes but his fingers keep tapping along Zayn’s skin until their breathing moves in syncopation under the rhythm of their beating hearts.  He swallows, Zayn watches, and they giggle because this is fucking stupid.

It’s stupid and Zayn Malik is not in love with him.

“Can I borrow your hoodie?” Zayn requests and Liam tries to put off the way Zayn’s sideways smirk brothers him now.  Not in annoyance, but in pure bliss.

“No.”

“But _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn whines and Liam sputters a laugh, dragging Zayn out of his room and down the hall until Liam can budge open his own door and let Zayn litter through every piece of luggage he has until he finds what he wants, smiling brightly like he’s forgotten all he wanted was sleep.

**

“The loo in here is _sick_.”

“Yours is probably as posh, you nob,” Louis calls out to Niall, leaning off half the back of one of the plush cream colored couches with his feet tucked underneath him and Call of Duty blasting loudly across the flat screen.

“The fuck it is.  I should’ve given you fucks the Premier and taken the Penthouse for me’self,” Niall declares, drying his hands on one of those fluffy white towels that feels like velvet on the skin.  “Probably not even making the most of your king-sizes.”

“Is that a dick joke?” Louis wonders, munching on a bowl of dry cereal before engrossing himself back in the game.

Liam snorts, ducking his head as Zayn squeaks out a laugh.

“Gross,” Niall groans, tossing the towel at Louis’ head before plopping down next to him, stealing the controller and half his plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.  “I know for a fact that those Magnum’s were not yours last summer.  Haz, on the other hand – “

“Has no use for ‘em,” Louis cuts in, crossing his arms over his chest and there’s a sternness to his expression like _I’m_ always _in control_.

Niall shrugs, greasy fingers firing through another round on the controller and Louis slouches down into the cushions, pressing toes to Niall’s side while purposely not looking toward the closed bedroom door that Harry hides behind.

“Do we have plans today?” Zayn asks, pulling Liam’s black Adidas hoodie closer to his body and it’s oversized on Zayn, the sleeves coming over his knuckles and Zayn’s hair is hanging down with the fringe kissing his forehead.

“I was planning on crashing in for a while with a marathon of _Game of Thrones_ ,” Niall says, wide blue eyes watching himself die on the flat screen before he tosses the controller back into Louis’ lap.  “Just me and Natalie Dormer.”

“And a bottle of lube?” Louis teases, waggling his eyebrows a little too suggestively with clumsy hand motions.

“I prefer spit,” Niall says with a small shrug, crunching down on bacon, running greasy fingers through Louis’ flattened hair with an affectionate grin.  “Or a good old fashion dry hand.”

Louis balks, smacking away Niall’s hand with a shiver and Zayn’s tipping his head back with a laugh that crinkles his eyes and sends something sinking and warm down Liam’s chest.  He focuses his eyes – well, he _tries_ to but Zayn’s fingers keep brushing over his bare ankle like he needs Liam’s attention, constant – on Niall snuggling closer to Louis while Louis sips slowly at a glass of orange juice, taking selfies for his Twitter.

They sit like that for another round of Call of Duty where Louis drags Niall into a headlock when he steals his turn, tangled in each other on separate couches but still breathing in the same reverie with smiles and echoing laughs.  Niall tucks himself into the crook of Louis’ neck while Zayn feeds Liam bits of toast and fresh fruit from a bowl – room service is quick and thorough because Niall really is some sort of important figure at the hotel this week; or at least his _money_ is.

Liam hums around Zayn’s index and middle fingers, smiling at the juice from kiwi and strawberries that lingers on Zayn’s skin until Zayn winks at him, his thumb running under Liam’s bottom lip.  His knees knock against Zayn’s and he scoots closer for Zayn’s warmth and smile and that friendliness he can’t find in Harry right now.  And the pressure mounds heavy on his shoulders when Zayn feeds him raspberries while their smiles twitch to the rhythm pounding from Harry’s closed bedroom door – _We live in cities you’ll never see on screen. Not very pretty but we sure know how to run things._ He sucks at Zayn’s thumb, far from lewd and uncalled for but Zayn’s eyes are dark when Liam’s teeth nip at the nail, drawing back with a subtle grin that echoes _I can do more if you’ll let me_.

“They say,” Niall starts and Liam can already hear the curl of his tongue, his accent thick like sex, “fruit makes your come taste better.”

“ _What_?” he squeaks out and Zayn stiffens in the most comfortable way with his fingers digging into Liam’s forearm, leaving white marks that quickly fade behind.

Louis blinks, smiling evilly.  “’s true.”

Niall cackles and blood rushes Liam’s cheeks, Zayn’s cheeks pinker than freshly spun cotton candy.  They curl into each other with _‘protect me’_ on their lips and Niall smirks, chuffed and with little concern for repercussions.

“Harry used to love pineapples just before bed and – “

“Do _not_ continue,” Liam barks, stringing an arm around Zayn’s shoulders and that fluffy hair tickles the space just beneath his jaw.  “It’s bad enough I had to suffer through the _sounds_ in our Uni room.”

“Sounds?” Niall wonders, his tone coy and teasing.

Louis refuses to recoil and Zayn bites down on a sound that’s strangled and girlish.

“Haz likes a lot of saliva.”

Niall gags and Zayn’s cringing beneath Liam’s arm, laughing against Liam’s birthmark with Liam’s teeth setting a steady pressure to his bottom lip to withdraw his thoughts about lifting Zayn’s chin for a kiss and promise of finding out what Zayn likes later on.

Just mates, indeed.

“I want to tour the Strip some,” Liam says because everything is too heavy with sex, sex, Zayn’s fingers scratching at his thigh through the thin fabric of his joggers.

“Me too,” Louis chimes, tangling his fingers in Niall’s wild blonde hair, grinning at Liam.  “Think we can catch a matinee of Nathan Burton?”

Liam nods, smiling back, letting the thrum of Harry’s music settle against his skin – _Living in ruins of a palace within my dreams. And you know we’re on each other’s team._

Zayn bites teasingly at his shoulder, sharp teeth digging in just enough that the pain stutters Liam’s thoughts from the way Zayn’s fingers sneak under the hem of his shirt, graze wickedly over his flesh.  His lungs expand – _I’m kinda over getting told to throw my hands in the air, so_ there – with oxygen besieged by the scent of vanilla and campfires and Zayn, _fuck you, Zayn Malik_.

“I wan’ sit here and read comics,” Zayn whispers, against Liam’s jaw, smiling thickly.  “I’m behind on Green Lantern and you promised me _War of Kings_ and Lupe Fiasco.”

Liam smirks, fingers dragging lazily against Zayn’s scalp and that knot in his stomach tightens at the idea of white sheets, thick duvets, _Scarface_ in the background with the tip of his tongue writing out the plot of some silly storyline over the tendons in Zayn’s neck.

Harry’s door swings open when Zayn’s feeding Liam those little minty chocolates left behind on the pillow that Louis refuses to eat and Liam freezes for a second – _awaiting the war_ , he thinks – before Niall grins and pats at a spot next to him on one of the couches.  Harry smiles back, waving him off before peeling back the skin on a banana and finding a seat on the arm of Liam’s couch.  There’s still water dripping from his curls and he looks freshly scrubbed, skin bright pink from perfect water temperatures in the shower.  Liam bites on his grin when he catches Louis staring for a few seconds, the stars on an early rise, and Louis flips Liam off before Harry can spot him.

“We want hibachi and American burgers and Bud Light,” Niall tells Harry halfway through the switch between Call of Duty and _8 Mile_ , spread across the couch and Louis’ lap like a petulant child wanting candy.  “Come with?”

Harry hums, leaning his spine against Liam’s shoulder and he finishes half of his banana in one very obscene gesture.  _Accidental_ , he tells them every time he does it, but Liam thinks along the lines of _‘practice makes perfect.’_

“Put on _Kill Bill_ ,” Harry tells Louis, cherry lips spreading for a smile that Louis only half returns.  “Got a thing for Lucy Liu.”

“And samurai swords,” Louis notes, scrunching his nose when Harry winks at him.

“Can we get sushi and ride the gondola?” Zayn sighs out, fingers sticky with melted chocolate that Liam’s tongue licks away like this is completely normal between dudes.

“This is much better than those holidays back home,” Harry says wistfully, pressing long fingers into the muscles at the nape of Liam’s neck and something gleeful spreads across his face at the sound of the Green Hornet Theme.

Louis scoffs, tossing a throw pillow at Harry’s head and nearly hitting his intended target.  “You loved going home with me to my parents.  Me sisters adore you.”

Harry smirks, biting at his knuckle with a quiet shyness.  “Lottie loved messing with my hair.”

“And Daisy and Phoebe always woke up extra early to dress you up and play tea party,” Louis adds, smiling so damn fondly that Liam can’t remember a _before the battle began_.

“Loved your mum’s cooking,” Harry sighs, fingers inching down his leg and he’s too far away to touch Louis but their eyes say enough.

“Tea by the lake.”

“You foolishly trying to teach me footie in the yard.”

“Was never a good student.”

“You were a horrible teacher.  All you did was yell.”

“It’s the only way you understood,” Louis laughs out and everything feels like it’s floating on the surface of the water – their smiles and beaming eyes and the lyrics to that song they loved about _would you lay with me and just forget the world_.

Harry chews on his bottom lip, looking unfocused and _intense_ feels like the word that summarizes it all.  It’s never been this dense but Niall clears his throat, lists off his favorite scenes with Darryl Hannah in them and no one says how guilty they feel for not mending this broken circle a long, long time ago.

“Think I want a lie-in,” Harry announces, standing and stretching until his silly Ramones shirt lifts high enough to expose the bottom portion of butterfly wings.  “And I’ve got research to do for the newspaper – “

“School’s out for a few more weeks Haz,” Niall demands, giving Harry an upside down scowl that weakens Harry’s defenses just enough.  “Join us poolside in half-hour, yeah?”

There’s a protest on Harry’s lips, everything in the room stained in awkwardness right down to the Persian carpets, but Harry doesn’t refuse.  He merely quirks his lips, skipping over solemn blue eyes when he nods at everyone but Louis.  He disappears behind the bedroom door again and Liam hears a river of – _You say sometimes it’s like I hardly know you. And maybe there’s some things I never showed you. Sometimes you’re certain but just can’t get it working at all_ – before his breathing moves toward normal again.

“Stupid vacations,” Louis mutters and they all think he means – _I know we said it’s just as well that I won’t keep, keep you for myself but I don’t want to see you happier with somebody else_.

Zayn frowns into Liam’s shoulder and wasting away in his room, Zayn by his side with the X-Men between them doesn’t sound awful at all.

In fact, it feels _perfect_ , by his own definition rather than the dictionary’s.

**

The sun beats like something foreign – _I’ve never seen a diamond in the flesh_ – but familiar like Everclear and lemonade just before noon.  His muscles slice into the water like floating through melting glass.  Everything coils and relaxes as he does laps through the pool, deep end to shallow, the sun reflecting off the surface like the skyline across the buildings of New York City.  His feet kick beneath the water – a nice trick he learned from spending two summers ago watching people like Michael Phelps and James Goddard – and he guides himself on the motion of his arms, catching breaths every other stroke.

The pool area is not terribly crowded but there’s a nice gathering of girls in bikinis, guys with their board shorts, kids leaping and splashing on floatation devices that do little to stop some of the wreckage.  There’s a pulse to the air that feels nothing like home – _And I’m not proud of my address in the torn-up town. No post code envy_.  It’s drenched in freedom – _euphoric_ , a word Zayn teaches him halfway through History class when they’re fifteen and chatting about the weed Zayn smoked through with Louis over the weekend – and it sizzles like a nice burn, sinking into his skin with the kind of emphasis the sun should.

There’s a hum from the girls at the deep end, guys in sunglasses trying to be coy when they peek over the lenses at the lack of tan lines on their shoulders – _We don’t care. We’re not caught up in your love affair_.  When he emerges, somewhere in the middle with the sun beating down on his shoulders and little droplets sliding down his nose, he wades until he can breathe at a normal pace again.  He surveys the way half of the occupants spend more time wasting away in the heat rather than slicing through the crystal clear water and he laughs to himself because, of course, this place is about being seen.

Harry and Niall are involved in a rather playful game of chicken against two dishy brunettes with tan skin, bright brown eyes, and polka dot bikinis.  They’re frat boys with their aloha-print board shorts, neon-framed Ray Bans, and wide smiles that border on flirtatious – well, maybe not Harry because he’s naturally like this – and Liam submerges himself to his neck in the water while watching Niall toss one of the girls backwards toward deeper waters.  They’re shouting victories and their voices roar like _death to propaganda._

Louis and Zayn are sitting, thigh to thigh, on the shallow end with their calves immersed in the water.  They’re laughing through baseline jokes and the buzz of a few drinks at the bar before they stumbled out here, the sun highlighting the natural glow of their skin and Liam blames his exhaustion from swimming for the sudden lack of oxygen.  It’s the kind of simple answer he needs instead of white teeth and shadowy scruff and eyes like raw honey and the sound of Zayn’s voice beats louder than the song in his head – _And we’ll never be royals. It don’t run in our blood._

He’s high off of the scent of chlorine and the way Zayn’s hair looks flat and soft under his snapback.  He blames all of that for what he does next, muscles flexing and rolling beneath his hot skin as he swims on the surface of the water toward the edge of the pool until he’s right _there_.  Until he’s standing waist-deep in the water in front of Zayn and Louis and the sun waves down on him, favorable when Zayn smiles.

Louis clears his throat, pushing thick, thicker fringe from his forehead before nodding at Liam.  It comes off as a _yes, you may_ but Liam thinks he’s reading it wrong until Louis pushes off the ledge and floats into the water, moving away from them.  He waits a few breaths, casually glancing over his shoulder to make sure Louis’ gone and he catches him swimming up to Harry with a smirk.  It works something awful and pretty against Harry’s lips until Louis’ leaping up and dunking Harry underneath the water.  It’s playful and mocking until Louis holds Harry down for a long stream of bubbles and, fuck, Liam thinks Louis might do it.

He might actually drown Harry.

Alibies and thoughts of happenstance float off when he turns back to Zayn, feet kicking little waves of water at Liam.  Zayn’s mouth is lifted sideways with his tongue pressing firmly against his teeth and Liam bites down on his bottom lip to hold in the ‘ _I love the way you smile’_ that beats thick against his throat.

“Still afraid of the water?”

“’m not afraid,” Zayn admits, lowering his brow a little like a challenge.  “Just not much of a fan of it, y’know.  Just like, I don’t like it.”

Liam snorts, nodding.  He floats a little closer, fitting himself between Zayn’s already spreading legs – invitations of a silent nature – and the heat of the sun is nothing like the flames that move under his skin when Zayn leans back and smirks.

“I wouldn’t let you drown.”

“You wouldn’t?” Zayn wonders, something wickedly playful in his voice.  “Wouldn’t be very nice if you did.”

Liam giggles, swaying with the waves and letting Zayn’s calves cage him in.  His ankles brush against Liam’s sides and he thinks, _closer still let me in_.

“It’s scary, yeah?  The deeper parts, I mean,” Liam says, his mouth curling for a smile when Zayn grows small and he worries his bottom lip with those white teeth.

Zayn gives half of a shrug, eyes lowering and those lashes cast spider-web shadows over his cheeks.

“Still can’t swim.”

Liam nods, slow and understanding.  He reaches up, on instinct, wet fingertips running up Zayn’s forearm right over the ZAP and the stereo on the inside and he stops just short of the inky bandana wrapped completely around Zayn’s elbow.  He watches the water sluice down Zayn’s forearm and his thumb presses to the inside to catch the rhythm of Zayn’s pulse.  His lungs feel with heat and desert dryness and pure exhilaration when Zayn lifts his eyes, lips quirking.

“I’d be there with you,” Liam assures him, earning a softer look as he maps out _chillin’_ over Zayn’s skin.

“’m supposed to trust you?”

“You _don’t_?” Liam wonders, his brow dipping and his eyes narrow for half a second.

Zayn grins, nipping at his lower lip as the arch of his foot skids over Liam’s bare hip.  Toes press at his back and ecstasy seems so applicable now.

“Been thinking about getting another one,” Zayn says and Liam’s barely noticed Zayn covering his hand with his own until almost calloused fingers rub roughly over Liam’s knuckles.  They pull Liam’s hand higher to an open space just next to the prism on the inside of Zayn’s bicep and he’s searching for oxygen.

Liam bites onto a corner of his lip, pressing fingers into skin until half-moons remain and Zayn shivers with the wet touches.

“What this time?”

Zayn’s lips twitch, cheeks lifting.  “Thought about getting something… I don’t know.  Like it’s probably geeky and silly.  I feel daft.”

 _You couldn’t be_ , Liam thinks, chest expanding with a deep breath before he whispers, “Go on.”

Something cautious moves over Zayn’s lips before he nods.  “Thought about getting something to represent you – “

Suffocation.  You can drown without being surrounded by water, yes?  It has to be physically possible because he is and he’s trying not to look so obvious but he’s struggling for air now.

“ – like, just something because you’re one of my best mates.  And I got that tattoo with Lou and, honestly, Haz is too random to get something for.  But you.  I mean, like, it’s so easy.”

 _But you make me so hard_ , he thinks and Ruth was right.  Cheesy.

Liam etches out the untouched skin, rubbing at it until he can picture something small and simple and unnoticeable but Liam, he would get it.  He’d see it and the color Zayn would add and he would fall so easily.

“Like what?”

Zayn ducks his head, cheeks a pale pink under the waves of the sun but it’s still there.

“Like I wan’ the Batman signal, y’know?  I mean, ‘cause we both love Batman and you, you _are_ Batman, Li.  I swear by it,” Zayn says, his voice so bright and happy.  It spills over into Liam’s chest until he knows the meaning behind _nothing compares to you_.

“For me?” Liam asks, his voice choked.  He’s embarrassed at the sound but Zayn, fuck, he looks so gleeful.

“And I was going to add a Joker smile jus’ below it for me.  Like last Halloween when we dressed up.  Y’know, just like a ‘you and me’ thing,” Zayn adds and Liam’s heart seems to move at rapid pacing, light years ahead of his lung capacity.

Liam swallows, or he tries to but he chokes on it and he thumps a fist to his chest, fingers still pressed to the inside of Zayn’s arm.

“What’s a matter?” Zayn wonders with a tilted head and Liam rocks into the water, trying to cool his skin but it’s not enough.

“It sounds daft, right?  Like, fuck.  I’m mad.  A complete nerd.”

Liam giggles, shaking his head, splashes little flicks of water upward until it wets Zayn’s thighs, dampens his smiling skull-face t-shirt.  Zayn gasps, reaching in to splash water at Liam’s chest and they’re giggles underneath the crash of clear waters.

They’re dripping and blushing with Liam’s world rocked off its own axis.  He fits a hand between Zayn’s legs, on the ledge of the pool, to pull himself up and their noses brush before Liam presses a soft kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth.  So close but he doesn’t want to be invasive or reading into signals that could be imagined rather than real.  But his lips linger a second too long, eyes spotting the freckled blush, and he pulls away quickly before it aches more than it heals.

Its nervous laughter and Zayn’s toes brushing the bone of his hip before Zayn’s pushing him backwards into the water with a snicker.  He slides beneath the surface, blinking his eyes open against the burn of chlorine and, through the fuzzy haze, he thinks he sees Zayn smiling down at him with a fondness that helps him breathe under water.

**

They do dinner at the Venetian with steaks and mash and Liam pulls the waiter aside to order Zayn chicken because he will always remember Zayn's dietary beliefs, swiping bits of rice and spicy chicken from Zayn's plate halfway through one of Harry's drawn out stories about the cultural impact of films like _the Devil Wears Prada_ on impressionable women.

They're sat with Louis and Harry on opposite ends of the table and he doesn't think he'll ever adjust to the way they're all split up like property – Zayn belongs to Louis, Liam to Harry, and Niall being traded off between the two on the weekend like children in a divorce – or the way he's drawn into Harry's discussion about post-romantic journalism while Louis plots stupid pranks with Zayn involving baby oil and Niall's wardrobe.  There's red wine for Louis and mojitos for Harry and Niall because Harry likes the mint and Niall just likes the alcohol intake while Liam and Zayn share root beers and crinkled smiles.

The sky is a long stretch of blanketing lavender because it’s not quite dark yet but it’s a little past dusk with the sun almost forgotten in the background.  The air is warm, the kind that produces heat but not exhaustion and everything feels _alive_.  The streets and the taxis and the _come see naked girls_ and the alcohol everywhere.  And they’re all coiled in laughter and symmetry moves them with the bass from the clubs and the roar of excitement from the casinos.

Harry’s stretching and yawning and looking sheepish like the day’s already been too long but he rolls into Niall, sliding underneath a pale arm with a large hand pressed to the small of Niall’s back.  Louis’ bouncing and excited and he’s already insisted on buying tickets to Frank Marino and Pure is his choice in night clubs tonight.

“Drinks and proper attire and, fucking c’mon Malik, you know you want to,” Louis howls, spinning around the crosswalk post like an acrobat.

Zayn smiles, muffling a snicker into Liam’s shoulder before shaking his head.

“Need to try a hand at Circus Circus and the tables,” Niall insists and Harry and Liam make a face because Louis’ already lost forty dollars on roulette there because – “seventeen black is a _curse_ , I swear.”

“I want the Mirage and I heard TAO is brilliant,” Harry says, palming up Niall’s back like a _suggestion_ rather than coercion.

“Not now boys,” Zayn presses, fingertips beneath the thin layer of Liam’s button down and Liam pushes into the touch like the fire doesn’t burn and the ache doesn’t grow.  “Wan’ see the show at Treasure Island.”

Louis scoffs, Niall chuckling, and Harry smiles like he knows.  Like he’s in on it now when Zayn bats innocent eyes at Liam and Liam only.  He watches Zayn light up a cigarette, stepping backwards because _space_ and Liam doesn’t want it.  He wants to suck in nicotine and feel his muscles go loose under Zayn’s stare and watch the stars shine a little dimmer than all of the hotel lights with Zayn by his side, touches too frequent to be counted.

“It’s hardly worth it,” Louis remarks, fitting himself between Harry and Niall without flinching, without regretting being that close to Harry.

“How would you know?” Harry asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Quit being intrusive.”

“Quit using words you don’t have a definition for.”

Louis gasps mockingly, pinching Harry’s hip, and Niall grins with a Zen expression like _this feels right_.

For once, this feels right.

“’m sure you lads will enjoy it,” Niall says, hooking his arms with Louis and Harry, separating them just enough that their spiteful words can’t reach above the echo of music and white noise and the riled sounds of drunken bliss.

Liam thinks to protest because this trip was about him and his boys.  The five of them.  It’s about breathing in every inch of Las Vegas with them and clinging to that last thin string of teenage injustice.  He wants beers and Louis’ tweets and Black Jack right before Poker with shots of Amaretto lingering in the in-between.

But something stops his blood when he spots neon lights dancing off of hazel eyes and lips moving upward at the corners and the smoke swirling around Zayn does little to hide that brilliantly pleased look stitched into his expression.  It starts up something hot in his blood and he rocks back on his heels for passing crowds that do little to separate the little looks they keep giving each other.

It’s _I will if you will_ and Zayn stubs out his cigarette, closes the distance, and Liam’s free falling when Zayn’s nimble fingers wrap around his wrist and drag him into the middle of traffic back toward their hotel with laughter chasing their footsteps.

It’s already crowded and they’re not close enough if the displeased look on Zayn’s face says anything but then the lights of the boardwalk fade out and Liam pushes through some of the debris of people to bring Zayn closer to the roped off area.  They hide in the dim shadows and Liam sinks into Zayn’s smile, his wrinkled up nose before turning for the rustling start of Sirens of TI.

The fireworks and rumbling music and it’s such a production, Liam swears, feel like an absent dream when Zayn fits himself up to Liam’s back.  He’s so close that Liam can taste the cigarettes and firewood and _Zayn_ , he thinks he’ll never forget that taste.  He’s grinning over Liam’s shoulder, their height difference so apparent now when Zayn steps on his tiptoes to get a closer look and Liam wants to offer him more room until arms circle him from behind.  They tighten around his abdomen and Zayn’s breath tickles his neck, just under his jaw.

“Is this okay?” Zayn asks lowly, barely heard under the wail of one of the actresses but Liam trains his hearing to catch everything Zayn says.

Liam chokes on the words he wants to say – _yes, closer please, I don’t know about you but I don’t plan on letting you leave_ – and pushes back into the touch instead.  He lets the warmth dig into his pores and Zayn smiles against his cheek – _Once in a lifetime, the suffering of fools. To find our way home; to break in these bones_ – until nothing feels out of place anymore except the rhythm of his heart.

He reaches back at the explosions and singing and the rage of it all to try and feel against Zayn’s ribs for the _‘pirates life for me.’_ Zayn grins, nose brushing Liam’s jaw, and Liam bites down on his lip until his thumb strokes the playing card stitched there.  He rocks back against Zayn, far from provocative but still very much a warning.  A message that’s in Morse code and meant to remind Zayn that Liam’s very much a man.

He’s very much willing if Zayn will just give him a little more.

“They wouldn’t ‘ave liked this like us,” Zayn says, still smiling, still breathing against Liam’s skin.

Liam agrees silently – _Give me a shot at the night_ – and leans his head until their temples touch.

“’s nice.”

“S’okay still,” Zayn wonders, hushed voice, fingers on Liam’s hips now like he’s scared Liam might run when the shows fades and the lights lift and the world spreads large around them.

Liam shifts his eyes closed through the penultimate and breathing didn’t use to feel so labored.  He grins, the drag of Zayn’s stubble so random but welcoming now.  He fits his hands over Zayn’s, fingers dragging over his knuckles, fitting between the open spaces.

“Better,” Liam whispers and he thinks the words are for himself until he catches the blush and shy smile from the corner of his eye – _Give me a moment, some kind of mysterious_.

When the lights do blink on and the wooden dock beneath their feet thumps with the draining crowd, Liam feels closed in.  He feels warm and ready to give in because Zayn’s still holding him.  He’s still breathing against Liam’s birthmark and waiting until the water stops splashing and rocking until he tries to pull away.  And Liam almost lets him.

 _Almost_.

His tongue is heavy with words he can’t say but he spins around, happy and out of control and so ready to be Zayn’s _Jack Sparrow_ for a moment.  He waits until Zayn’s mouth moves upward and sideways and he’s high on this.  He’s stumbling on nirvana and Louis’ never offered them good weed like this but it doesn’t matter.  He just knows _stop_ and _that’s enough_ are dead under his feet as he reaches out – _Throw me a lifeline ‘cause honey I’ve got nothing to lose_ – and drags Zayn down the wooden planks toward something else, something just as vibrant as he feels.

It’s just a few feet away at the Mirage with exploding volcanoes and bursts of fire and heat that feels like warm air compared to Zayn’s fingers on the small of his back or his own fingers digging into Zayn’s hip just to guide him closer.  It’s the roar of the crowd and the crackle of something vibrant around them.  And his phone buzzes in his pocket for too long with missed texts from Harry, phone calls from Niall, Twitter updates from Louis and none of that matters.

“Wow,” Zayn breathes out and Liam reverses the roles this time – Zayn in front with Liam pushed up to his back, arms coming around Zayn’s chest.

“’s amazing Li,” Zayn smiles out, wide eyes watching the explosions and the colors.

“Amazing,” Liam repeats but it’s not from fire or heat or this fucking city.

It’s _Zayn_ and his smile and gold eyes and Liam squeezes him a little tighter for emphasis – _I feel like I’m losing the fight_.

“We ought to meet up with the boys soon.” Zayn suggests, his voice thick with a grin as the fire rises higher and higher, “y’know ‘cause Niall can’t keep Haz and Lou from murdering each other.”

Homicide seems a willing route if it means Liam can keep Zayn this close.

The air is thick with the scent of ash and heat and pyrotechnics but Liam smells vanilla and a heady whiff of Marlboro’s.  He can’t help the way his muscles jump when they coil just a little tighter around Zayn.  It’s cheek to cheek and breathing in unison until the explosions halt and the crowd starts to dissipate.  His breathing gets a little erratic when Zayn links their fingers together, just above the heart tattoo and the _‘don’t think I won’t.’_   He wills himself to think of _best mates_ but it doesn’t corral his excitement.

It does little to stop him from turning his head just enough to kiss Zayn’s cheek and this feels nothing like _chaste_ and _friendly_.  It feels like _mine_ and _yours_.  His lips linger, chaffing on Zayn’s stubble and he knows they should walk away.  They should find Louis and tequila and the rest of the night is so young.

They stay steadfast instead for what feels like too long.  Or not long enough.  He’s not willing to decide but Zayn’s thumb stroking his knuckles tells him he doesn’t have to.

Not yet.

**

There’s still a buzz in his system and the – _adrenaline_ , he thinks, works through his senses like a rush of fireworks.  It’s clarity that he can’t quite define but his fingertips feel like little sparks under the skin.  He can still taste stout beer from Niall’s persuasion and something acidic like Smirnoff or Kettle One that he blames on Louis, possibly Zayn, and there’s something sweet – _who but_ Harry Styles _drinks cotton candy-flavored vodka with pineapple juice_ , he wonders – but the fever in his blood is definitely Zayn.  It’s pulse, pulse, and Zayn Malik has worked something awful like the first flecks of snow in December over his synapses.

It’s what has him padding bare feet over the carpet of his hotel room toward the door a little after two in the morning when his body keeps screaming, _‘sleep for fuck’s sake, learn its purpose,’_ but he can’t.  He wants to, tripping over loose clothing and why were _Niall’s_ trainers in his room anyway?  He doesn’t think he lives in insomnia but it’s this little thing that’s been niggling him since sixteen and getting on the rugby team.  It’s studies and sports and he’s just not good at sleep anymore.

He’s rubbing at his eyes, yawning, and swinging the door open to have every breath of air kicked from his lungs.

 _Zayn_.

It’s like a cup of Earl Grey mid-dawn before the sun fully sheathes itself in low hanging clouds – _soothing_.  His once spiky and quiffed-out hair is lying flat, thick fringe dipping into his eyelashes, with those black-framed glasses he wears when he’s deep into studies or just trying to tease the girls with his _I’m a geek but still beautiful_.  One of those vintage shirts with the stretched out collar reveals ink and red lips and the wings of an angel that stretch wide over his collarbones.  His stubble looks thicker than earlier – the feel of it on Liam’s skin still tingles – and he looks so _soft_.  Soft and warm and Liam’s heart has no definite rhythm to its beats.

Zayn’s rubbing at the nape of his neck, looking over the frames with a quiet, almost mysterious glow.  His sweats sit loose on his hips, a hint of hip bone exposed when he reaches up to scrub fingers through his product-free hair.  Something wobbly and small sits on his lips like a smile but it’s nearly disguised by the way Zayn’s gnawing at it, eyebrows raised.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn whispers, looking shy and nothing like that boy who made Liam’s mouth dry and stomach weak hours ago.

Liam blinks at him, unsure, but his fingers vibrate on their own correlation.

“Wasn’t sleep,” Liam assures him, already circling Zayn’s wrist because he senses Zayn’s sudden need to retreat.

Zayn nods, teeth still working nervously, bopping from bare foot to foot with the kind of energy Liam feels in his bones.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Zayn says after minutes of dead air and little looks shared between them like _this is going to last forever_.

Liam doesn’t know why but he hopes it does.

“Me neither.”

Zayn smiles, wide and there’s nothing frank about the way his eyes glow.  Even in the hazy light of the hallway, those orbs are satin gold.  The skin of an apple in April; perfectly bright and delicious.

His thumb works over the bones in Zayn’s wrist, eyes flicking over the waistband of Zayn’s boxers, cold toes wiggling forward until they touch Zayn’s.  The air conditioner works manically over his bare chest and he wants Zayn to touch the band of his joggers, tug at the elastic until it snaps except Zayn’s holding a used copy of _the Fault in Our Stars_ in his free hand.

Liam wonders how impossibly young Zayn probably looked under the faded light of the table lamp with the book open in his lap and his head bowed.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you and – “

“Come in,” Liam says quickly, surprised by the calm of his own voice and he chokes on a squeal when Zayn’s mouth lifts a little higher.  He press his thumb into skin and croaks out, “You could, come in I mean.  Like there’s nothing on the telly but my bed is nice.”

 _My bed is nice_.

He shivers and Zayn’s shoulders roll into something less fretting.  His toes feel warm against Liam’s and, even in the narrow space of the doorway, they lean into each other like it’s enough space.  Just enough for the two of them and the broad stretch of their hearts.

His fingers work down before Zayn offers a response, easing over Zayn’s palm and they fit between Zayn’s already spread ones like numbers and equations.  He grins, cheeks afire with pink hue, and Zayn’s teeth show through his own smile, still sinking into his lip.

“I could order us tea,” Zayn says when they’re inside and the door is locked and Liam licks his lips because Zayn’s look so – he’s thinking in shattered sentences rather than coherent voices.

“And biscuits.  Niall says they’re brilliant.”

Liam nods but he doesn’t want either.

“I don’t use all of the pillows,” Liam explains offhandedly, pulling back the duvet and Zayn’s smiling like he wants a mountain of pillows and _Liam, just Liam_.

“I don’t snore.”

“I know,” Liam says weakly and his smile shows through his words.  “Still like the left side?”

Zayn snorts, cheeks kissed with blush, fingers scratching at the stubble.  “Whatever side you don’ sleep on.”

 _I want to share that side with you_ , Liam thinks, and it ruins him.  It fucking collapses everything he thought he knew and he’s helping Zayn out of his shirt because he can’t stand the thought of that kind of material separating them.  It grates and feels like needle-pricks on the surface so he turns away when Zayn stretches so he doesn’t focus his eyes on the thin trail of hair from the ledge of Zayn’s navel down into those damn boxers.  His fingers, on their own accord, slide over Zayn’s skin and he maps out bones and softness and the slight curve of Zayn’s arse before retreating back to Zayn’s hip.

“Do you still sing yourself to sleep?” Liam wonders, flattening out the rumpled sheets and fluffing pillows.

Zayn groans low in his throat, looking ashamed, and it’s adorable enough that Liam almost stretches forward to kiss him.

 _Almost_ , he reminds himself repeatedly because it’s a must.

“Sometimes,” Zayn admits, his voice low and sleepy.  “Lou would be quite jealous.”

Liam arches an eyebrow, shoving a hand into his luggage until he pulls out an unopened bag of Twizzlers and his worn copy of _Messiah Complex_.  Zayn moans out a smile, nodding, and Liam feels the wings of a butterfly stretch wide in his coiled stomach.

“Jealous of what?”

Zayn sinks under the covers and anchors his back with a pillow against the headboard.

“I never ask to sleep with him anymore.”

Liam ducks his head, dropping the bag between them on the bed before rubbing at the nape of his neck.  His cheeks burn, the tops of his ears too, and he thinks, _cardiology is the study of the heart but no one has studied the effects of Zayn Malik on its working parts_.

He settles down with enough space to fit Louis between them, unconsciously, and Zayn sighs out frustration before closing the gap, hip to hip, shoulders brushing.

“Like when we were fifteen,” Zayn reminds him, tearing open the bag before cracking open the graphic novel.

Liam grins, everything going a little hazy and bright when Zayn feeds him a Twizzler and whispers, “ _No more mutants_.”

It coils around his chest this time and there’s some sort of vampirism in Zayn’s smile with the way his mouth curves and those white teeth are bare, nose scrunching, eyes crinkled.  It drains the feeling from Liam’s toes, the ones brushing against the arch of Zayn’s foot under the duvet, and he associates it with that song Harry always hums on his way to Sociology on Tuesday mornings – _In the dark of this place, there’s the glow of your face. There’s the dust on the screen of this broken machine_.

Happiness fills his lungs and scratches over his skin and he noses along Zayn’s bare shoulder while Zayn goes on about Wolverine’s claws and Nightcrawler’s _BAMF_ and _‘you’d be Scott Summers because,_ fuck _, Liam you’re so sensible.’_

They knot their fingers over a few pages, tracing out colors and glossy material, and Zayn’s breath feels warm against his cheek when they giggle about being tangled up under sheets when they were younger watching _X-Men_ in the dark.  Twizzlers against his lips, biting off the ends, and Zayn’s stubble scratching his neck when he gets increasingly sleepier.  The tautness of his muscles work around Zayn’s shoulders, draw him in, and the sheets feel cool under his thighs when Zayn tries to interweave their legs.

“Emma Frost,” Zayn yawns out, flipping a page lazily, scratching his thumbnail over Liam’s knuckles, “is a right bitch.”

Liam smirks, the lowest point of his lips kissing Zayn’s hairline.  “She’s perfect.”

“ _You’re_ perfect,” Zayn says with a giggle and he doesn’t have to look up for Liam to read the lines of his smile.  He simply drags the prickles of his stubble against Zayn’s forehead and waits until Zayn’s tickling fingers caress his ribs to stop.

“Go away,” Liam laughs out, smacking at Zayn’s hand but he doesn’t mean it.

 _Come closer_ , he thinks instead.

Zayn bites at his shoulder, glasses sitting clumsily on the bridge of his nose, smiling into Liam’s warm skin.  Liam hitches on a breath when Zayn’s fingers plucks a nipple and one of his canines nearly breaks skin.

“You dick,” Liam laughs into Zayn’s hair, his thumb etching down the stiffened muscles of Zayn’s stomach.

“Arse.”

Liam smiles against Zayn’s forehead, lips mouthing out _‘but I love you’_ so low Zayn doesn’t notice.  He taps it out instead, the beat of lyrics and harmonies and he remembers Justin Timberlake – _‘cause I’ll give you my heart if you would let me start all over again_ – with _Pineapple Express_ playing in the backdrop.

“You don’t mind, right?” Zayn’s voice has gone soft and quiet and his breathing evening out but he’s still obviously fighting every dusting of exhaustion.

Liam hums a response that feels like _not at all_ at the back of his throat.

“Louis wants to catch a couple of shows tomorrow,” Zayn mutters and Liam removes his glasses for him, folding them up before resting them on the bedside table.  “I think he still loves Haz, too.”

Liam nods, smirking like a whisper.  “He does.”

He’s caught off guard by a hand on his stomach, teasing at the waistband, never going further.  _Please do_ , he thinks, sinking his own fingers into the sheets to stop himself from pushing Zayn down and ruining him with heated kisses.  Desperate kisses.

Very un- _friend_ -like kisses.

It’s later, when they’re both under the sheets and his skin aches with how close Zayn is, that he thinks of years ago.  When they were younger and Zayn was spiky hair, glasses, cheeks just a dusting of scruff, and carrying _the Kite Runner_ everywhere because, _‘it’s amazing Liam.  The whole story.  Will you read it when I’m finished?_ ’  The book tucked between them on Liam’s Pokémon sheets, the simple divide between thighs and fingertips, and their cold toes brushing over warm skin beneath the layering.  Just stupid jokes in the dark, being drunk on the DC universe, eyes bright like supernovas, and _‘the meaning of life, Li; I only get it when ’m around you.’_

Now is a different constant – _perpetual bliss_ , Louis taught him somewhere in the middle of last term over coffees and chats about Harry and _where is this going_ that he sort of regrets because now is much, much different – and Zayn smells like nicotine and quiet body wash and warmth that stutters Liam’s senses.  He’s nearly curled around Liam with a head on his shoulder, toes tickling the arch, calves brushing, and Liam’s fingers tangled in thick, thick dark hair.  The sheets crease against the pressure and Zayn’s not snoring but humming with every other breath, lips tilted upward.

It’s a smile, Liam decides, mirroring it because he can’t stop himself.  And, for reasons he wants to explain to his children one day, he falls against the weight of gravity and closes that thin space that’s been separating them ever since Zayn fell asleep before Cable could kidnap Hope Summers.  Just the minty scent of toothpaste and Liam presses his lips to Zayn’s dry mouth.  He leaves his eyes open – nothing like an ideal first kiss that’s a bit nonconsensual and, fuck, he feels awful about that – and lets his lips linger for seconds.

His tongue wets Zayn’s bottom lip and he holds his breath through it but the fireworks between his cells and the way his toes curl tells him this will be better _awake_.  He bites down on his lip when he withdraws, the shadows drawing out the sharpness of Zayn’s cheeks and the curve of his smile.

He’s still smiling.

Liam’s heart pounds like something unheard of and Zayn sighs, content, in his sleep before snuggling closer.  Fingers pinching into the flesh of Liam’s chest, thighs touching now, the heat so real that Liam’s cock aches in his pants and the tip leaves a thick, wet stain on the sheets when Zayn inches a leg between Liam’s.  Zayn’s lips brush lightly over Liam’s birthmark and he leans into the touch like he _needs_ it and sleep seems too far away now.

An afterthought; the possible ending to something so bright at the beginning.

But he waits it out with his fingers running over the sharp hairs on the nape of Zayn’s neck and Zayn nosing his skin until the world’s no longer tangible.

**

There’s the sharp taste of blueberries on his tongue, a smearing of grape jam on the corner of his mouth – it’s sticky against Zayn’s lips and Liam keeps frowning at it because Zayn likes the apple kind from the little packets that come with the plates from room service and he keeps wondering how it’ll taste on the tip of his tongue if he presses his mouth to Zayn’s, firm and magical – that he keeps licking at while Zayn snickers at him.  Their fingers keep brushing over the last remaining crumbs of a lemon poppy seed muffin, grinning lopsided smiles at each other like twelve year olds.  They’re so close, thigh to thigh, arms grazing, on one of those plush couches in the living area of Louis and Harry’s suite, the world around them just a static-y white noise that’s bearable as long as the soft sound of Zayn’s breathing supersedes the buzz in his head.

Zayn’s in a pair of baggy basketball shorts he nicked from Liam’s luggage in the morning – Liam still smiles at the way Zayn’s back arched as he stretched across the bed, rumpled hair and deep scruff and he loved the way the sun hit off the edges of Zayn’s skin in the mirror while he brushed his teeth – while Liam cuddles just a little closer in a pair of loose-fitting sweats that keep sliding down over his hips to expose more skin.

He bites down on his lip, his laptop playing _Mask of the Phantasm_ while being balanced on Zayn’s knees.  Zayn’s toes rub purposefully at the bones in Liam’s foot and _serenity_ , he thinks in serenity and existence and its importance.  His heart is far from steady but he’ll anchor himself to the way Zayn’s body feels hot and weightless next to him.

“You just can’t make a Batman film without Joker,” Zayn exclaims, rocking inward, his shoulder knocking against Liam’s.  “It’s just not the same.”

“ _The Dark Knight Rises_ babe,” Liam says a little offhandedly but his smile is so thick it feels heavy against his lips.

Zayn snorts, finally thumbing away that smearing of sticky jam, licking the pad playfully before he’s nipping at his thumbnail.

“An exception,” Zayn notes, teeth creasing his bottom lip until it turns white.  “Bane is _sick_.  A monster, Li.  But no one else.”

“Ra’s al Ghul,” Liam whispers against the shell of Zayn’s ear, smoke filling his lungs when Zayn fucking careens with laughter, eyes crinkled up, nose scrunching, lips pulled wide and shiny.

“Wanker,” Zayn heaves out, pinching at a nipple before Liam’s fingers, deft and decisive, tickle up Zayn’s ribs.

 _Don’t run_ , Liam thinks, leaning in, his laughter wet against Zayn’s neck, lips tickling just under Zayn’s jaw.

It’s like a clap of thunder – Zayn’s fingers on the nape of his neck, holding him there – and his breaths come quicker than his lungs can contract for but it feels like the best thing before sudden heart failure.

He welcomes it.

Louis’ sudden and impatient, clearing his throat loudly.  Liam snaps back, Zayn drawing back a little slower, and suddenly Liam remembers the cold feel of distance.  Zayn’s toes stay close and insistent against his foot as a reminder.

“Where is everyone?” Louis asks, grimacing a little as he stretches long and loud in the doorway of his room.  His t-shirt is wrinkled, shorts hanging crookedly off his hips – they’re Harry’s from Tenth Year though Liam wonders if Zayn notices or if Louis even cares anymore – and he’s got one sock on, one off like a dazed toddler.

Liam clears his throat this time, Zayn’s fingers sneaking between them to pinch at his hip.  “ _We’re_ here.”

“You’re sickeningly desperate too,” Louis sighs, stumbling into the room.  He seems unaffected when Zayn smacks his bum, stealing half a glass of orange juice and the rest of Liam’s bacon in the wake of his incessant sighing.

“Fuck off,” Zayn mumbles, grinning when Louis shrugs.

“Not very into that aspect of sexual intercourse but I’m considering,” Louis notes over his shoulder, drawing back the curtains and the sun is bright, spinning in the middle of the sky.

Zayn gasps, Liam’s wide eyes gawking at Louis until he spins around, arms folding over his puffed out chest.

“Again,” Louis draws out, every syllable present, “ _where_ are the others?”

“You mean Niall,” Zayn says dryly.

“Or your ex,” Liam mumbles and he does his best to disguise his smirk when Zayn pinches his skin sharply, Louis’ brow folding and wrinkling.

“Arse,” Louis hums, crunching on bacon, finishing the orange juice in one swallow.  He wipes his mouth the back of his hand and manages to flip Liam off at the same time.  It’s quite clever and deceptive but it does little to slow Liam’s resolve.

“ _Both_ ,” Louis finally puts out with a labored breath.

Zayn leans into Liam, everything glazed over from the crown of his spiked up hair to the smoothness of his feet.

“They’re playing a round,” Zayn says, low and contemplative like maybe they shouldn’t.

Maybe Louis really did win Niall in the breakup agreement that seems to still be a hidden document that Harry and Louis only review when they want to stake claim on _something_ or _someone_ or possibly piss the other one off for the sake of heartache.

Louis frowns for a moment, scratching fingers through his already peeled apart hair.

“Harry still golfs?”

“On occasion,” Liam offers up, unintentionally working an arm around Zayn but something hot sparks over him when Zayn folds a hand over his, keeping the arm close.  “Mostly when Niall’s in town.”

Louis nods and everything behind those blue eyes seems to be working over the thoughts.

“Good for him,” Louis says, words strangled.  He clears his throat again, confidence sliding.  “I mean, whatever.  The fucker isn’t much good at it.  I reckon Ni’s probably kicking his arse over all eighteen holes.”

Zayn giggles, Liam sliding his lips sideways with doubt.  He doesn’t miss the _‘I hope he’s stuck in a water hazard’_ that froths past Louis’ lips as he moves through the room, biting into the remains of Niall’s half-eaten bagel but he avoids responding because, well, it’s not his place.  Not this time.

“The tea is horrid in America,” Louis announces between the spaces of breaths and Liam’s helpless little smiles behind Zayn’s back.  “There’s no finesse.  ‘s just lazy.   
Needs flavor.”

Liam snorts, shaking his head.  “You’re just _particular_ , Lou.”

“And you’re rubbish, Payno,” Louis declares, sipping at the cold tea Harry left behind that’s probably layered in excess honey and specks of milk.  “It’s called _patriotism_.  Malik will gladly define it for you.”

Zayn chuckles and Liam presses his mouth to Zayn’s hair to bite back harsh words.

“What’re you lads up to today?” Louis wonders, his voice a little distant as he watches white clouds streak against perfectly blue sky.

Liam looks at Zayn, fond smiles between them, and he thinks _nothing at all unless it’s with you_.  It works against courage – the same bravado he’s been hoping to capture so he might, you know, _kiss_ Zayn while he’s _awake_ or recite the words from Shakespeare he spent all morning learning while Zayn slept against his chest – but he feels the wrinkle of his nose with a grin when Zayn shrugs.  It feels like Tenth Year and nothing but the weekend and three fucks with nothing to do but be around each other.

“The Strip,” Zayn offers to Liam rather than Louis, something waifish and pink lit against his cheeks.

Liam nods, slow and willing.  “Small shops.  Need a new pair of trainers.”

“The hotels,” Zayn hums, his thumb rubbing out little shapes that feel like hearts over Liam’s oblique muscles.

“Magic shows,” Liam whispers, forgetting Bruce Wayne and a fear of bats.  “Gift shops.”

“Free drinks and that Monopoly game we spotted in the lobby,” Zayn giggles and ‘ _better three hours too soon than a minute too late’_ works against his mind but refuses to leave his tongue.

“I’m repulsed right now,” Louis groans, inching behind the couch to smack a hand against the back of Zayn’s head.  “I’m having a lie-in.  And then drinks.  Loads of drinks.  White wine and Niall’s _the Walking Dead_ DVD’s.”

Louis trips on his own feet toward his room but not before stopping just behind Liam, leaning in close, lips chapped against the lobe of Liam’s ear to whisper, “’ve watched my best mate fall sickeningly hard for you for the past three years.  Massively hard, okay?  Do me a favor and do not crush what dreams that poor fuck has left.  Do me proud Payner.”

Liam’s throat chokes on air and Louis’ sliding behind neatly carved wooden white doors like it’s nothing.  Like he hasn’t just spun Liam’s world a little upside down and off its axis.

It’s too, too quiet for endless minutes before Zayn’s turning and their knees knock together on Liam’s first exhale.  He’s smiling, nervous with blinking eyes and a long sweep of eyelashes.  Liam can’t help it – fingers exploring the inside of Zayn’s arm over the prism and that bare space where he thinks _Batman will fit perfectly here_.

Teeth hold the corner of Zayn’s bottom lip prisoner before he finally mumbles out, “You’ll really do that?  Just go to all of the hotels with me and it sounds boring, I know.  ’m a nerd but will you?”

 _Anything for you_ , he thinks and he’s a complete arse.  He’s cheesy and how did Danielle survive that long with him?  He’s unworthy of the adoring grin that sparks, floods Zayn’s lips when he finally nods.

“Sounds brilliant.”

Zayn wheezes on a laugh but there’s something so steadfast under that – a promise of gratitude that’s not yet explained.

They rush down the lift toward Liam’s room with playful giggles and hands that push and pull at skin until they have to back away.  They never go too far – under the ribs, across the chest, the veins on their necks, the inside of biceps – but it always feels just near the edge of something more.

 _Something more_ , he thinks, willing off his smile before it betrays him.  He lets it rest on the sidelines for more appropriate times.

 _Like our wedding day_ sitting in the back of his mind.  Foolish but so hopeful.

They dress in everything casual they can find between their two rooms – Liam in some arty t-shirt Harry made him buy in the square back home with joggers and a pair of high top trainers; Zayn in Louis’ vintage Spider-Man tee with the sleeves ripped off, tight black jeans, white trainers, and a lopsided smile that Liam tethers himself to – before nicking a map from the front desk.  Zayn steals Liam’s Aviators from his luggage and Liam sneaks into Zayn’s room to borrow his X-Men snapback, sitting it lightly over thick hair that Zayn’s pulled into a sleek quiff – “James Dean, Li, fuck you look good.” – until they look more like tourists rather than survivalists.

The sun glints off the gold-stained windows of the Encore and the wind shifts dusty and deliberately hot against their skin.  The streets are moving blocks of people, scattered and unsophisticated but they blend into it so easily.  They move down the corners and across the bridges and Liam listens intently as Zayn explains the history behind each building.

He tangles their fingers together somewhere just outside of the Bellagio and grins when Zayn doesn’t even flinch, squeezing together for assurance.  The sun leaves pronounced richness in Zayn’s skin, gold and smooth, and he leans into him when Zayn goes on about architecture and “the skyline and the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, babe” when they approach New York New York.  They trade blue raspberry and white cherry Slurpee’s near the Flamingo and share popcorn on the Rialto Bridge toward the Venetian.

Their knuckles brush through Guggenheim Hermitage Museum – “Tell me more about Picasso,” he whispers into Zayn’s ear halfway through and the smile on Zayn’s lips keeps him attentive through each of the pieces the tour guide lists off – and something swells large and encompassing through his chest when they chase each other through the casinos at Circus-Circus.

He hums and plays air guitar through the shops at Planet Hollywood – _Ancient Rome; we built that fucker stone by stone. Our fingers bled, our feet were worn_ – until Zayn pulls him by the collar with a wicked laugh that echoes through Liam’s ears for the next hour.  They stumble through the Mirage, sipping on pineapple juice and white rum and Liam tries not to react when Zayn makes the first move this time, fingers twining in the small space that separates them while they walk.

“You’re not bored, right?” Zayn asks on an unsteady breath in the middle of the Riviera.

Liam bites on his lip, smoothing out a grin – _This is not for your entertainment_ – while drawing out patterns with his thumb across Zayn’s knuckles.

“Not at all.”

“Yeah?” Zayn says, a little eager, still nervous.

Liam snorts, sidestepping until he’s closer with their forearms brushing.  He knocks his shoulder against Zayn’s playfully – _The land at the end of our toes goes on and on and on and on_.

“Couldn’t be happier,” Liam replies assuredly and they bank their smiles off the silence that settles in there.

He drags Zayn through Caesar’s Palace, letting Zayn study the columns and vast stretch of carpet, wrinkling their noises together at the prospect of catching Celine somewhere down by the slot machines.  His hand rests on the small of Zayn’s back through a slow walk in Harrah’s, his thumb stroking out the skin on the small of Zayn’s back while Zayn sings lowly – _The sand at the core of our bones, it blows on and on and on and on_ – and irreversible cadence leads them into the streets again with the light reflecting off of Zayn’s Aviators and sweat sliding down his spine when Liam drags his stubble over Zayn’s shoulder.

“Teach me,” Zayn begs when they sidle up to a Black Jack table in the Palazzo.

He wants to kiss Zayn under the array of colorful umbrellas instead but Zayn’s eagerness – the hidden world behind those gold eyes – urges him elsewhere.

He settles Zayn into one of the stools at the table, crowding in behind him because he’s better at hands-on teaching – and maybe he likes the way he’s so much bigger than Zayn, how he can cover him without suffocating.  A hand rests over Zayn’s, carefully guiding him through each of the motions until Zayn understands a wave of the hand means _‘stay’_ and tapping a finger on the table means _‘hit me.’_   He grins into Zayn’s neck when he loses his first three rounds with a pout and wrinkled brow.  Something heavy and punctuating smacks against his chest when Zayn wins, again and again, until Zayn’s got a stack of chips and the dealer’s attention.

“One more?” Zayn suggests, his voice smoky and still scratchy from that last cigarette between Aria and the pavement just outside Paris.

Liam smirks, lips to Zayn’s neck, nodding.  “Quit while you’re ahead,” he says though he doesn’t mean it.

He doesn’t even understand the definition because his dull nails are scratching over Zayn’s knuckles and he’s huddled in closer to him, even with a table full of players and onlookers.  Liam feels like he’s won the jackpot, the biggest stack of chips, the world.

Zayn hits Black Jack, sudden and unexpected, and Liam sweeps him up into an embrace before Zayn can even piece together what’s happened.  They leave behind an ace and the queen of spades with grins, tangled fingers, and four hundred unforeseen dollars.

“You’re good luck,” Zayn tells him in the entrance of their hotel with a smirk, leaning up, and Liam unconsciously offers up his cheek instead of his mouth.

 _Regret_ , he thinks, the sudden sinking feeling a little too overwhelming when Zayn smiles a little softer while drawing back.  He rocks on his heels and – _there’s no difference from where we wake and where we die_ – keeps his fingers twined with Zayn’s until past decisions don’t weigh so massively on his shoulders.

Because _just mates_ feels more like pain rather than the antiseptic it did earlier.

**

They sit dinner at Phil’s Italian Steak House in button-downs, nice Oxfords, pressed trousers because Harry wants something semi-formal, grown up – “We could’ve sat dinner at the buffet in sweats and something less confining,” Niall complains halfway looking through the menu and over the wine list – before they leave all of this behind.  It’s at an all too small table meant for four, not _five_ , and Harry’s forced to sit next to Louis because Niall refuses to be the in-between in that war while Liam insists on being to Harry’s left, Zayn’s right, and the glowing space between mates – or _something a little more_ with Zayn but details, details, details.

The round table is dressed in a linen table cloth with neatly folded napkins, wine glasses intermingling with water glasses and Liam can’t decide which fork is for salads and which is for the main course – “Now _I_ can teach _you_ ,” Zayn whispers to him, precise fingers inching over Liam’s fumbling ones and inhale, exhale corrals his thoughts.  The wooden chairs scratch indignantly over the hardwood every time someone stands to use the restroom and Louis is fucking _glaring_ at everyone because Harry’s shoulder or knee or hand keeps brushing his like this space is infinite enough for him.

“So why did you two call it quits again?” Niall asks over medium rare steaks and mash and half a bottle of something Niall’s splurging on that tastes like wood and acid – “ _Robust_ dear Liam, have some class,” Niall tells him, accent thick but not deafening.

He was brought up to avoid topics that were considered taboo, inappropriate at the dinner table – or in the company of strangers – but leave it to Niall to trample through that kind of red tape.  He does it all with an ease and a smile and enough room between all of them that the exterior of this glass house they’ve been living in finally starts to crack.

Blue eyes flit over green ones, Liam shrinking in his chair and Zayn busies himself with his plate of chicken and scallops – “For stamina,” Zayn whispers and Liam tries not to careen out of his chair with the dulled hint of lewdness that works against Zayn’s tongue – but Niall seems unmoved.  He gnaws at his steak, douses it in sauce, scrapes his fork over the fine chinaware until Louis groans and Harry coughs.

Louis’ fingers tap out Morse code across the table while Harry takes a large gulp of wine, folding his hands one over the other like he’s considering.  Liam leans into Zayn – _run for cover_ , he thinks – while Zayn elbows Niall like a warning.  It’s a misfire because Niall clears his throat, looks quite impatient for a second.

“Is it that difficult?” Niall inquires, blinking clarity-driven blue eyes that are unrelenting when focused on Harry and Louis.

Another tap of fingers, something resembling a melody to that song Harry would sing, low and throaty, for days after the breakup – _When your tears are spent on your last pretense. And your tired eyes refuse to close and sleep in your defense_.  Zayn feeds Liam asparagus and chicken dipped in tarragon, lips catching on the silver fork, and the air is so, so thick now.

Harry sighs, lofty but devoid of resentment, while tangling fingers into his dense curls.  He hollows out his cheeks before finally replying, “Lou didn’t want kids or marriage.”

It’s simple and Liam winces at the way Louis’ fingers immediately curl into his linen napkin.

“Fuck off.  I never said that,” he says immediately, his brow creased, lips pursed.

“You _did_.”

“Did not,” Louis hisses and _hurt_ and _defiance_ never look so pronounced – _When it’s in your spine like you’ve walked for miles. And the only thing you want is to just be still for awhile_.

“You kind of did,” Zayn says, teeth folding over his lip when Louis reels back, incredulous and betrayed for a second.

Liam squares his shoulders immediately, defense on high even though Zayn’s pinching the skin on the inside of his forearm until he eases into his chair.  He’s far from a superhero and Zayn, well fuck, Zayn’s good at holding his own.

“Oi, who’s best mate are you now?” Louis squeaks and Niall’s filling his glass before he can request him to, a half-lit smirk on his lips like he knows exactly where this is going.

 _The little shit_ , Liam thinks, blinking at the way Harry seems caught in his own resolve; tangled in the web like a desperate prey.

“But you sort of did Lou,” Liam adds.  His careful fingers move beneath the table, rest on Zayn’s thigh until they stop shaking.

“Oh shut it Payno.  No one asked you.”

“Did you?” Harry asks, brisk and thoughtful.  He’s leaning in, too close – _And if your heart wears thin, I will hold you up. And I will hide you when it gets too much_ – and Louis’ eyes are wide like bursting stars in a black sky.

Louis folds, poker face drained, toying with his food instead.  The prongs of his fork scrape against porcelain, cut through sauce and pasta.  His fringe slips into his eyes and Niall slurps at his wine to chase away the silence.

“Of course I did,” Louis sighs, eyes lifting.  He’s hiding behind sternness, steeliness that’s immeasurable.  “With you, _yes_.”

Harry swallows, eyes resembling the burnt leaves of a clover.  “Then why?”

“We’re _young_ for fuck’s sake Haz – “

“I didn’t say tomorrow, Lou,” Harry interrupts and it almost sounds like lyrics – _I’ll be right beside you_.

“But _soon_.  Everything with you is a plan,” Louis snaps, fingers digging into the table cloth until everything shifts forward.  “Our relationship.  Our future.  Hell, you had times set aside for shagging.”

“Things I care not to hear about, mates,” Niall declares around the lip of his glass.

Zayn rolls his eyes, Liam gaping, and silence seems like the object of the game now.  It feels like an appropriate victory to cease the way everyone’s blood is turning cold, bones aching.

“I just wanted to know,” Louis pauses – _when the space between the things you know is blurry nonetheless_ – and he tips back his glass for a slow swallow of wine before he finishes, “I don’t know.  Doesn’t matter.”

Harry nods slowly, his jaw twitching.  “Of course not.  Never does, right?”

Louis doesn’t answer, settling his eyes on his plate again, and the speed of Harry’s breathing matches the words in Liam’s head – _When you try to speak but you make no sound. And the words you want are out of reach but they’ve never been so loud_.

They rock into that silence for minutes too long and it drives Liam mad.  The discouraging roll in his nerves, the way he runs from it so quickly.  He fastens himself to Zayn’s grin when Niall offers up coffee and afters, casually playing footsie beneath the table until their ankles knock and knees nudge against each other.  He cups Zayn’s hand beneath the linen covering the table and everything is so fuzzy with Zayn’s thumbnail scratching absentmindedly against the back of his hand until Niall groans.

“For the love of David Beckhalm, you two are so obvious,” he crows, bits of frustration flowing through his grin and Liam rules out _ashamed_ when blush heats up Zayn’s cheeks because he wants to kiss it away.

He tightens his fingers around Zayn’s instead and that genuine smile that lifts the corners of Harry’s mouth, the laugh that echoes through Louis chest like reverberations underwater, the way Niall fucking _beams_ keeps him steady until Zayn leans into the crook of his neck and breathes out ‘ _can I sleep at yours again tonight’_ while his body heats up.

It makes the taste of hazelnut and cream stirred into his cuppa, via Zayn, and the way Harry excuses himself for a kip and research bearable.  It holds until Louis looks a little less despondent and Niall quits taking a piss at them for their smiles and _‘no fucking at the table, Zaynie, have some manners’_ guides them away after Niall foots the bill.

**

Zayn begs them into 1-OAK at the Mirage, promising music and drinks and “the artwork, they say it’s amazing,” and Liam refuses to argue against the idea when Zayn grins so wistfully.  Louis doesn’t disapprove and, after some mild convincing, Niall agrees because promises of alcohol and sheets of women is all Niall needs.

It’s loud and electric and the display screens along the walls show off artwork that Liam’s never seen.  It’s dark and pulsing with smoke, strobe lights, everything overdone in the most aesthetically-pleasing way.  It screams _‘avant-garde’_ and Liam gets the attraction for Zayn – something mysterious, dark, entrancing like the rolls of a wave in the night.

He refuses to shy away from the way the buzz from the music and the constant grinding, crowds of people shoved into leather booths with table-tops done up in bottles of champagne and buckets of ice.  It’s a warmth that’s _lethal_ and he bites down on the tip of his tongue at the steel pools in the middle of the large room like he’s considering it.  Like he wants to push Zayn against one of them and see how far he can coil his legs around Zayn’s hips.

They’re lined up at the bar – _We got a rock DJ, we got a total fucking alcoholic. We’ve got a thing they call a cyber-girl_ – Zayn, then Niall, followed by Louis, and Liam can’t help the way his skin jumps at the delicate fingertips pushing at the small of his back like little encouragements.  They sipped through Coronas made tart by limes – Niall slurps his way through a mug of Bud Light instead – and the spotlights chasing each other keep blinding him.

Something inside of him starts to relax when Zayn’s fingers go softer against the center of his back, the smile curling Zayn’s pink lips drawing more attention than any of the girls squeezed into short skirts and low-cut tops ever would.  They had enough time between dinner and the club to slip upstairs and Liam’s settled into black jeans, one of Niall’s snapbacks, a pair of Zayn’s combat boots, and one of those generic football jerseys – American, not European – with a large white _seventy-nine_ across his chest.  His own fingers sketch over the loops of Zayn’s dark jeans in retaliation and they grin at each other over the pulsing music that vibrates against the walls – _One more patient please for the guy who sold us Ecstasy. He’s building homes now in the new third world._

“’s great, yeah?” Zayn asks over the rhythm, over the lights, lips to Liam’s ear.

Liam nods quickly and his teeth dig at his bottom lip until Zayn pulls back with a laugh and fingers running over that stretch between his shoulder blades.

“Drinks,” Louis calls out, refusing to run when Niall’s cold fingers trace the nape of his neck or when Zayn reaches out to pet his cheek affectionately.

Zayn orders them chilled shots of Grey Goose with lemon wedges on the rim of the glasses.  Liam feels the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes after the first one, that burn stripping the lining from his throat, and that heady buzz in his chest lights up like a flame.  There’s a part of him that wants to blame that sensation on Zayn with his crinkled eyes, wrinkled nose, little vibrating laughs that tickle the crook of Liam’s neck.  He settles for resting a palm to Zayn’s lower back, fingers trying to trace the dimples at the bottom through Zayn’s black button down but he fails.

Louis orders up another round when Niall slips away into a small crowd of swaying bodies, grinning like he’s made bank, and Liam doesn’t discourage the curve of Zayn’s fingers on his hip when they trade shots and smirks.  He licks at the acid from the lemon on his lips, Zayn’s eyes wide and dark, and he thinks _tease, you are one Liam Payne_.  It fits a grin to his lips and he noses Zayn’s jaw through – _Find someone close and hold them like you care_ – until Zayn’s snickering and the world starts spinning anti-clockwise.

Halfway through – _What would you say if I fell apart? Could you bring me back then?_ – Louis’ got one of Zayn’s Marlboro’s hanging loosely between his lips with a tipped up grin.  Zayn’s got a matching one as he fixes a fag between his own faultlessly pinkish lips, little nods of his head to the beat the most he’s doing to each song.  He cups a flame to the end of his cigarette, lighting up before offering the spark to Louis.  The other boy cranes his head forward, cupping his hands over the dancing fire, huffing through the first few puffs like he’s rich on the stinging taste.  He tips his head back, a thick cloud of smoke surrounding them, and something like a smile touches his lips for the first time in hours.

“Fuck, it’s been _years_ ,” Louis sighs happily before another meditative drag pulses out thin rings of smoke.

Zayn nods with a grin, his own cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth.  Pet Shop Boys plays in the background, Niall buying them a round of 1800 Silver this time that Louis tosses back like water while Zayn and Liam cling to each other because, yeah, tequila is far from ace.

Niall’s sucking down a dirty martini with a filthier look for a petite blonde with artificial breasts and a smile sickeningly sweet like saccharine.

“Think he’ll fuck her?” Zayn asks between the pulse of bass music and the dizzying displays of art across the projection screens.

Liam shrugs, the bitter taste of vodka and tequila still slick against his tongue.  “Blowjob?”

“Bet she’s horrible, man.  Completely rank,” Zayn laughs out, closer now with his fingers curled around Liam’s hipbone.  Liam pretends not to notice the way Zayn’s eyes trace over Liam’s own lips, slow and lustful, before he whispers, “She’s probably got no technique.”

Liam swallows – or he tries to – and shakes his head.  “Can’t be that hard.”

Zayn snorts, his thumb pushing in firmly until Liam’s certain a bruise will be left in its wake.

“Think so?” Zayn wonders, the tip of his tongue slicking his lips.  His teeth nip at the bottom lip, eyes still roaming Liam’s face.  “I mean, it has to be more than lips and throat.”

Liam chokes on something at the back of his throat, the noise strangled and dead beneath the weight of the music but he _feels_ it.  It shifts his cock in his boxers, the weight heavy against his thigh, and the outline would be so present if not for the dark shadows of the club and the way he turns his body just enough that Zayn can’t see.

“Don’t you dare tell him,” Louis says suddenly with a bite of venom to his tone.

He’s pointing his cigarette at Liam, the ash hanging off, with narrowed blue eyes that look like half-moons in orbit.

Zayn slides an arm almost defensively around Liam’s wide shoulders, Liam’s own arm lifting out of instinct to cradle the small of Zayn’s back.  It snakes around him like _boyfriend_ ; it’s what a _boyfriend_ would do and his skin feels shocked alive.

“He won’t,” Zayn insists with a lowered brow.  He leans in to nose at Liam’s jaw, over the stubble, and he smells of nicotine and cinnamon.  It’s the kind of scent Liam suddenly wants burnt into the fabric of his sheets.

Louis sighs, nodding.  He gives in to the feeling, the sway of it before grinning and bellowing, “It’s nostalgia babe.  I swear.  Life before love and fucking heartache.”

The echo of drums and treble focuses Liam’s mind for a split second and he doesn’t think of how the bitterness in Louis’ voice is layered with rich tapestry and affection.  He ignores the way Louis combs fingers through Zayn’s hair or that tinge of jealousy that doesn’t last long when they laugh into each other’s shoulders.  He welcomes the round of something clear presented in shots glasses from Louis, swallowing it back quickly to avoid the taste or the way it does little to stifle the way Louis’ hiding behind a mask of sketchy freedom.

They let Louis wander off while Niall pockets number after number from blondes, brunettes, a rather tall caramel-skinned woman with long lashes and even longer hair.  Louis dances on leather couches, Niall grinding against a set of twins that were made  
more for porn rather than luxury settings such as this.  Liam stay close to the bar, even closer to Zayn, and they watch mindfully as Louis loses himself in a nearby bachelorette party, downing shots of Avión while being engulfed in a sea of older women and pink feather boas.

Niall makes nice with a pile of sorority girls, never learning any of their names but his fingers learn their cup sizes and who’s wearing tricky knickers that he has to maneuver around before fingering them wet.  He’s goofy grins, cranberry and vodkas while the girls feed him cherries and sloppy kisses.  His hair is fucked wild and Liam smirks at the way he’s lost in the hedonistic glow of it.

Zayn’s holding up two shot glasses filled to the rim with tequila – the heady scent is overwhelming and so, so distinct – before he reaches across the bar for a lime wedge.  Liam holds his glass between his thumb and forefinger, shivering when Zayn’s tongue licks a long, wet stripe up the column of his neck.  He nearly tips backward, the tequila splashing, but Zayn’s grinning with half-lidded eyes and innocence hidden beneath the devilish glimmer of gold eyes.

“Salt is a necessity,” Zayn says between breaths, dabbing rock crystals offered up by the bartender across Liam’s neck.  He’s shy about placing the lime between Liam’s lips and Liam finally gets it when Zayn lifts his shot glass in a mock toast.

“S’okay?” Zayn wonders, his voice low against techno beats and Britney Spears.  “I mean I don’t – “

Liam finds bravado at the pit of his stomach, fingers curling around Zayn’s thin wrist, guiding the glass to Zayn’s lips until he understands.  And fever rushes him, hollowing out his bones, static and electric ache running up his spine.

Zayn tips the shot back, his Adam’s apple moving to the pulse.  He does it all wrong – _salt, then drink, then lime_ , Liam thinks, remembers from days back home at Eleanor Calder’s birthday party when they were too young for stuff like this and too naïve for the things that followed – but Liam refuses to completely stiffen when Zayn ducks his head to lick slowly up Liam’s neck.  His fingers dig into Zayn’s hips – _steady now, don’t break_ , he muses – and his eyelashes flutter when Zayn gradually leans in to suck the lime from Liam’s lips.

It’s just a subtle brush, like snow that doesn’t stick to the streets, but their lips graze and Liam’s thumbs outline the bone of Zayn’s hip.  Zayn’s tongue slips against Liam’s bottom lip, teeth fastening around the lime and pulling it away but the blush that stains Liam’s cheeks remains.

“Shit,” Zayn pants out, eyes blown, fingers pinching at the lime with shiny lips and a flush to his face.  “’s nice.  Cheers.”

Liam nods, unsteady on his own deep breaths.  He smiles before Zayn can, unconsciously dragging his tongue over his lips to brush away the lime – and to try to taste the hints of Zayn still there – and his own shot glass is left forgotten on the bar.

“Tequila is shit,” Zayn laughs out, the sound broken and nervous and it draws Liam in.  It curls Liam’s fingers around Zayn’s free hand, the one that’s dropped the drained lime on the bar next to Liam’s glass.

Liam’s experimental at first, the tip of his tongue sneaking out when Zayn’s hand is raised in front of him.  Just a small lick at the tip of Zayn’s middle finger, waiting on a reaction that’s unfavorable.  It doesn’t come.

Zayn’s wide-eyed, lips parted, heavy breaths slipping through as Liam curls his tongue around Zayn’s index finger.  He licks away the juices, the salt, the smoke still embedded there.  He sucks slowly at Zayn’s thumb, casual but so focused.  His teeth scrape over the nail, kisses moved from finger to finger until he reaches Zayn’s pinky.  His tongue curls around the ring finger, eyes sliding shut at the sound of Zayn’s moan and he forgets where he is.

He forgets that boundaries between mates exist and he shouldn’t be doing this.

Zayn’s thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth, not encouraging but far from retreating.  Liam bats his eyes open on the index finger when the juices are long gone and all he can taste is Zayn’s skin.  He pulls his lips free, loving the way the light shines off the slick digits and he doesn’t imagine dragging Zayn to the loo so he can see how easily those fingers would slide inside of him now.

 _Fuck_.  He cups his crotch, purposefully apparent for Zayn, and adjusts himself until the ache isn’t so feverish.

They’re forehead to forehead when Liam lowers Zayn’s hand and Zayn’s cupping the nape of his neck with lowered eyes.  Just the breeze of their breaths cools whatever’s hot and needy against his brain, his fingers digging into Zayn’s hips until they’re flushed together without that border of hesitance between them.

“Again?” Zayn offers, lips twitching into a smirk.

 _Over and over_ , he thinks but the words stick to his throat.  He smiles instead, shaking his head.

“Water would be good,” he suggests instead and Zayn agrees silently but doesn’t move.

He thinks maybe the notion will sit forgotten like his tequila shot still does.

**

Harry sneaks in a little after one – Liam might’ve been texting him through Ellie Goulding and a nice mix of Beatles and the Clash over David Guetta – with a self-assured glint to bright, bright green eyes.  His lips are cherry-red with his sweep of curls pushed back and the first _eight_ buttons of his shirt are popped open to show off shiny birds and _17BLACK_ still seems so unlucky but fervent against creamy skin.

He offers them mugs of energy drink and little shot glasses filled with cherry-flavored vodka – “Cherry bombs,” Harry explains against his ear after they down them and grind through ‘Anything Could Happen’ – before buying them bottles of Heineken that Liam squints through while Zayn drains like second nature.  He pretends not to notice Harry’s foolish dancing through Miley Cyrus and focuses in on the way Zayn keeps biting at his lips like there’s a question but it’s too heavy for his tongue.

“Okay?” he asks instead of _can I kiss you_ and Zayn nods, slow and even.

“’m good.”

“I’m nearly pissed,” Liam giggles out, fingers moving like dancing flames over Zayn’s shirt, down around his hips with a sudden craving to sink lower.  He settles them on Zayn’s stomach instead, fear still lightning bright against fading resolve.

“A bit more then, yeah?” Zayn laughs out, ordering up more drinks that Liam blinks through.

“He should own stock in Trojan,” Harry teases, tipping the neck of his beer and his head toward the makeshift dance floor that Niall has some unfortunate brunette pinned to.

His hips move sloppily – _lack of technique_ , Liam thinks and tries not to gaze off at Zayn with a smirk – and his hands go from breast to hip to thigh and repeat.  His snapback sits on her head, her perfume probably sticks to his skin, and they’re snogging between – _We run things, things don’t run we_ – and – _I need your love, I need your time_ – with the kind of enthusiasm that makes Liam a bit nauseous.

“He probably _does_ ,” Zayn says with a snicker, reaching out to nick Harry’s beer before Harry does a colorful shot of deep blues that smells like raspberries.

The girl, who’s even lazier with her motions now, tips her head back onto Louis’ shoulder with a dazed smirk.  He’s rolling his hips aggressively against her arse, fingers pinching roughly into her hips like he’s intent on leaving marks and reminders.  His lips brush over her neck, teeth bare for a moment before they sink into the milky column and Liam waits for Harry to balk or stomp off.

Harry smiles, sweet and overly calm, and Liam thinks the world keeps getting fuzzier and fuzzier.

He blinks for too long at the circling lights and the cheap smoke and confetti, missing when Harry leaves their side to work through the thick of the crowd but he catches the curve of Zayn’s mouth when he grins.  He steps back and close to Zayn’s side with an arm slung around smaller but still wide shoulders – he loves the contrast between slim hips, small thighs, a wiry chest that expands into broad shoulders – to watch Harry tug Louis backwards and into his arms.  Just a stutter of Louis’ hips like he’s forgotten the groove they created mid-Spring a few years back at Caroline’s party this time – the one where Niall had to yosh in the bushes and Liam drunkenly snogged Jade for the acclaim, not the desire – with Kanye blaring and their hands roaming.

Zayn bites into a grin, his nose working over Liam’s collarbone while he tailspins into his own smile at the way Louis doesn’t fight Harry and they seem to be too pissed off beers and vodka to know the difference between heartbroken and enamored.

Blush wrecks Louis’ cheeks and Harry’s already flush with a thin gleam of sweat reflecting the cool lights that spin around the club.  Just a thumb to the corner of Louis’ mouth and they’re smiling at each other, amnesia threatening a promise that lingers on.

Niall appears out of nowhere, hip-checking Liam into Zayn and it’s that little encouraging hand at the small of his back that stings the worst.  It’s a grin on Niall’s lips that he spots over his shoulder, Zayn wedged between the sharp edge of the bar and Liam’s hips.

“Time is wasted on thinking,” Niall whispers into his ear, pressing a wet kiss to Liam’s cheek before ordering up a beer and the name of some sloshed redhead near the end of the bar.

Alcohol promotes slow thinking but his heart agrees before he can piece together the ramifications.  He hears something like Drake in the background – “You’ve got’a take a listen, mate.  It’s amazing,” Zayn told him over the phone weeks before any of this happened – and his hips start to move, fucking glide to the beat like _natural_ feels normal again.

He’ll blame inebriation later on but timing feels relevant right now as his thumbs and fingers find Zayn’s waist to guide him into this.  Shyness corrupts Zayn, tucks away his smile behind white teeth, leaves those long lashes sweeping over his cheeks like he’s terrified to look up at Liam but vodka and a lack of fucks to give encourages Liam further than he’s ready to commit to.

“C’mon,” Liam says huskily, leaning in, nose to nose.  “Let me see you.”

Zayn looks up, wide-eyed with concern but Liam ignores the blush staining his cheeks to nod and roll his hips just right.  It stutters a breathless groan from Zayn’s lips before he’s moving, a lot more awkward than Liam but he’s got a shaky rhythm that Liam clings to.

Niall’s laughing loudly to the side of them with his fingers already sliding down the back of her tight jeans, her lips leaving behind lipstick traces against an already bruised up neck.  Liam rocks with Zayn, groins meeting in the middle, biting at his lower lip while Zayn whispers – _I got my eyes on you. You’re everything that I see. I want your heart, love and emotion endlessly_ – so close to Liam’s mouth.

“More,” Liam says, presses his thumbs in until Zayn shakes and grinds back.  It tips up a grin and settles a roll of sweat down the center of his back.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn whines, dragging scratchy stubble against Liam’s cheek, hot breaths against his ear.  “You don’t know – “

“Don’t care,” Liam interrupts, his voice firmer than he thought possible.  He squeezes Zayn’s hips, pressing in, chest to chest now.

Zayn croaks on a groan, nodding, pushing back.  His heart stumbles on a sharp intake of air – _I can’t get over you. You left your mark on me. I want your high, love and emotion endlessly_ – and Liam preys upon it with lips across Zayn’s neck, just behind his ear.

“Something about your smile, babe,” Liam whispers, hips catching on Zayn’s erection and, fuck, he didn’t know that would entice the fire higher.  He pulls back, eyes on Zayn’s teeth gnawing helplessly at his bottom lip.

“Liam,” Zayn says softly, ducking inward.

Liam meets him halfway, refuses to fall for the bait.  He lets his mouth hover over Zayn’s, smirking.  “And the way you look sometimes.  Just, fuck, babe.  I don’t know.”

Zayn whimpers – _Just hold on, we’re going home_ – and drags his thumb over Liam’s bottom lip, smearing the saliva away.

They writhe against each other even though the tempo doesn’t call for it, motions that leave Liam sick and high and ready for everything.  _Almost_.

Zayn’s fingers burn over the thick hair at the nape of Liam’s neck, Liam’s hands tugging at belt loops and the thin stretch of material he can grab on Zayn’s jeans.  He inhales smoke and sweat and so much _man_.  So much musk and desire and his lips brush a smile against Zayn’s neck – _You act so different around me_.  He lets Zayn work a thigh between his legs and, _yes_ , the pressure is a nice relief.  He works his cock against it, ignoring the looks Louis gives them from across the room or the way Niall keeps chanting _sex sex sex_ like they can’t hear him.

Sweat folds between them, Zayn whispering, “What are you doing?”  He ignores the way it rings up clarity and _‘just mates, Liam, you’re just mates’_ echoes harder in his head than the words – _It’s hard to do these things alone. Just hold on, we’re going home._

“Stop thinking,” Liam says, low and hoarse and he wonders if he’s talking to Zayn or himself.  It doesn’t matter because his thumb toys with the button of Zayn’s jeans and Zayn’s chapped lips move lazily against his birthmark until their hips stop fluttering and start moving in unison.

**

He knows it’s but a few meters separating the Mirage from their hotel but they can’t make it – or his feet _won’t_ or his desire balks.  They creep out the side exit, Zayn leading them with their hands clasped and everything’s suddenly so dark, dark, washed out.

Liam’s more than halfway to pissed, stumbling in too heavy boots and sagging jeans and he can’t help the way he crowds Zayn up against _someone’s_ sleek black SUV.  He’s defenseless against the bursts of giggles that keep filtering past his lips and the way his hands keep roaming with _more, more_ tattooed to his palms.  Steadying his breathing or thinking past a need for more skin recedes all conscious thinking and the lights of the passing cars blind him momentarily as he leans in.

“This okay?” he asks, sudden and lacking oxygen.  He works his teeth against his bottom lip like Zayn does – _please don’t hurt yourself_ , he thinks with guilt sinking in – and his eyes trace the movement of Zayn’s tongue rather than the uncertainty flooding his eyes.

“We could,” Zayn starts, his voice weak but his hands steady on Liam’s hips, “maybe go watch a film.  Or I could let you strip off and shower.  Maybe head back in to party with Nialler.”

 _No_ is Liam’s immediate response to everything except his lips twitch and his fingers, on their own accord, slide beneath Zayn’s shirt to finally feel the soft press of skin.

“I mean,” Liam says, slow because his tongue feels heavy and his mouth is still slick with alcohol, “is it okay for me to be this close?  Can I… _fuck_ , I’m out of words, Malik.”

“Me too.”

“Should we stop chatting then?” Liam suggests, the corners of his mouth drawing up.

The notion marks a small smile against Zayn’s eyes and Liam feels small shoulders lift beneath his biceps.  He corners Zayn closer to the bending metal and the large glass window, craning his head until he’s too close to stop.

“I wanna learn everything about you,” Liam mutters, his breath damp against Zayn’s lips and the pink gives way to something scarlet on Zayn’s cheeks.  “I mean, the things I didn’t know before, yeah?  Just like, the little stuff.”

Zayn snorts, nodding.  His head tips back, offering Liam more than anticipation allows, and Liam swallows all the other foolish words that’ll sound daft and slurred later on.

Zayn tastes like chocolate and an ambush of sour mixed with sweet, unexpected and oh so wonderful.  His scruff bites at Liam’s chin and Liam sighs into the kiss because he’s much, much better than this.  He knows how traditional first kisses go – negating the one in the dark of his hotel room with an _unconscious_ Zayn, of course – and the angle is all wrong until Zayn tilts his head to the side and just the small brush of tongue against his lips opens up more than he’s prepared for.

There’s a moan echoed against the roof of his mouth, his lips giving access to tongue and sharp teeth.  Undefined brilliance topples uncertainty and Liam backs Zayn against the SUV until their crotches are brushing and he can feel Zayn’s heartbeat – _thump, thump, too fast_ – right alongside his own.  Their hips swivel until they’re comfortable and Liam thinks, _this is home_.  At least, it is now.

Zayn’s thumb traces along the stubble painted against Liam’s jaw and Liam sucks delicately against Zayn’s tongue until he tastes cigarettes and beer and, _oh_ , the caramelized fruit Zayn had back at the restaurant for dessert.  His scent is heady – musk and forgotten cologne and vanilla frosting – and Liam blinks at the way Zayn kisses him like he’ll never get the chance again.

He will.  Liam promises himself there will be a second and a third and a _fifteenth_ if he’s allowed.

The arch of Zayn’s back gives him away but the moan against Liam’s lips brackets his thoughts between lust and tenderness.  He sucks at Zayn’s bottom lip and nips the tip of his tongue and his fingers drag upward until he can tweak a nipple.  He smiles against Zayn’s mouth, hushing down words that’ll get in the way.  He times his kisses with the race of Zayn’s heart and he’s restless in the midst of snogging one of his mates.

Or _something more_ , he reminds himself.

He forgets reasoning and lets Zayn pull off to suck little pink marks against his neck, the stubble leaving angry red marks that Liam doesn’t want to wash away.  His fingers beat beneath the tight waistband of Zayn’s jersey-briefs and _too late to quit_ rings loudly in his head.

He has no plans to.

The fire lights up in his belly when he grinds back against Zayn’s erection, snickering into a few lazy kisses, Zayn’s mouth warm against his cheek when Liam searches for something else.  He sucks at the hoop earring, works his teeth along the tendons in Zayn’s neck until the other boy is breathless and sighing out little noises that drive Liam mad.

“Here doesn’t seem appropriate, yeah babe?” Zayn offers up between harsh breaths, soft whimpers, and Liam’s fingers toying with the button of his jeans.

Liam lets Zayn adjust the snapback on his head, cheeks stained a gorgeous pink that Liam kisses at for minutes more.  He nods, swallowing down dead air, and the heat that swells around them feels nothing like the way his cock curves up against his belly and feels so confined in his briefs and jeans.

“Yours?” Liam suggests but Zayn shakes his head quickly, tugging at the jersey until the sleek material stretches at the seams.

“I like yours better,” Zayn says against his mouth, lips curved into a smile that he presses firmly to Liam’s.

They kiss like that, intentions be damned, until their lips are swollen and their blush drains half of the blood from their pricks.  Zayn cups him, playful and intent, and Liam fucking rocks into Zayn’s palm until he can’t take it.  He chokes on oxygen when Zayn winks at him, cheeky grin matching half-lidded, dark eyes, and Zayn leads them again through a maze of drunken laughter and shaky footsteps.

There’s a curious buzz to their stride through the lobby and the casino toward the lifts.  They snog inside the small cage with Liam feebly undoing half of the buttons on Zayn’s shirt from the fifth floor upward.  Their manic giggles and hands held tightly over the carpet and Liam fumbles with the keycard as Zayn marks his collarbone with neat little teeth imprints that will last until morning.

“’m not drunk, I swear,” Liam promises through quiet hiccups, stumbling steps, the teeth of Zayn’s zip catching on his skin.  Zayn’s smiling into kisses even when Liam knocks into the bedside table, their noses colliding into another kiss as Liam sighs, “Well, not _that_ drunk.”

“I know,” Zayn whispers against his lips, biting gently, kissing roughly.

Liam pops at least two buttons on Zayn’s shirt toward his fumbled ecstasy, fingers inching under fabric and through denim just to feel _something_.  He lets Zayn bruise his lips, leave them swollen and red in the dark of the room.  The moon, neon ivory against a dark, dark sky, streaks through the thin curtains and paints the room a fluorescent lavender color that glints off the little stitches of Zayn’s exposed skin.

They tumble toward nothing, missing the bed by feet and Zayn lets Liam back him into a wall, foreheads bumping and lips smashing together.  Another giggle – Zayn this time – and sharp inhales – definitely Liam – and their hands roam on a slow creep toward release.  He peels Zayn’s shirt open, lips ruining untouched skin and teeth sinking in until he knows he’s left more bruises than Zayn will be able to count with a sober mind.

“So dirty,” Zayn snickers out, deliberately tipping his head back to offer Liam more room to play his lips on.

Liam sucks a small pink mark, canines dragging angry red lines against the column of Zayn’s neck.  His fingers fit against Zayn’s hips like keys in a latch.  His knee nudges Zayn’s legs apart and he fits into every hollow offered to him – Zayn’s collarbone, the juxtaposition between hip and stomach, fingers in the spaces of Zayn’s ribs.

“And sweaty,” Zayn breathes out, fingers crooking under Liam’s chin to lift it.

Gold meets almond in the dark, pupils dilated, and breaths uneven.  The corners of Zayn’s mouth lift, gentler now, into the kind of smile that fastens itself to Liam.  His eyes narrow but everything remains soft, kind.

“Fuck you’re beautiful,” Liam groans, craning upward.

Their mouths meet on the words Zayn’s trying to say, something cottony and lost against their lips.  He fists thick fingers into Zayn’s hair, tugging gently until Zayn groans and Liam feels in control.

 _Barely_.

His tongue slides over the roof of Zayn’s mouth, the taste so pleasantly sweet and _Zayn_ now.  Zayn’s fingers pinch into his neck, massaging away doubt and concern and hollowed out thoughts.  He crushes Zayn against the wall, hips wriggling until he can feel the imprint of Zayn’s cock through his open jeans, the thin fabric of his briefs.  He tastes the last of Zayn’s whines on the flat of his tongue and his kisses go slower, slower, still against Zayn’s mouth.

“Not too fast, yeah?”

Zayn smiles against his mouth, teeth biting at Liam’s full bottom lip.

“’s good,” Zayn whispers, his voice scratchy like chimney smoke.  Fingers work against Liam’s bicep, hips jerking forward.  “Need to… _fuck_ , babe, just need to get off.”

Liam chuckles, nodding.  He finds Zayn’s hand in the dark and they move on the buzz from alcohol, the high from lazy kisses, the clumsy feet that carry them into the bathroom.  They collide with the counter through longer kisses, Liam’s eyes closed, Zayn’s opened.  Zayn half-protests – _whines_ , begs for Liam to come back – when Liam tugs away to start up the faucet on the immense tub – really, he’ll have to thank Niall one day for convincing him to upgrade their rooms upon checking in – but Liam returns with hot kisses and swift hands that peel Zayn’s shirt completely open.  His lips play along Zayn’s chest – tongue to the expanse of wings, openmouthed kisses to the ruby red lips in the middle – while his hands fit against Zayn’s hips again – _home, home, home_.

They toe off their shoes, tug off their socks, and they yank each other into the tub – _fully clothed_ , Liam reminds himself – before Liam can cut on the showerhead.  The perfect pressure sprays hot water over them, soaking Liam’s jersey, dampening Zayn’s denim.  The water sloshes at their feet and all Liam can think is _heaven is right here against your lips_ as he fits a sweet kiss to Zayn’s mouth.

The water makes it hard to work their jeans down – Zayn’s caught around his thighs, Liam’s at his knees – but he doesn’t care.  He’s got slick fingers roaming Zayn’s chest and a hot tongue licking out every Arabic letter on Zayn’s collarbone.

“Fuck,” Zayn gasps, slipping backward.  He cracks his head against the shower wall but doesn’t care when Liam drops to his knees and drags his tongue from navel to waistband.

Liam grins against Zayn’s abdomen, licking at the hair with shaky fingers working down Zayn’s briefs.  Nimble fingers yank the snapback off and he blinks away the water sticking to his lashes to watch Zayn slide it on to his own head.

“Do I look gangster?” Zayn asks playfully, eyes smoldering with a cockiness to his smirk.

 _You look perfect_ , Liam thinks but he drowns the words out with a muffled moan and his lips pressing rough kisses to the bones in Zayn’s hips, across the top of his thighs.

His teeth mark Zayn’s legs, sharp nips that have Zayn trembling and lazily pulling at his cock.  The water pushes Liam’s fringe over his eyes, his hand slicking it back again as he leans back on his haunches.  He palms himself through his pants, teeth absently chewing at his bottom lip until it almost splits.  He watches Zayn wank himself, deliberately slow and practiced.

“You look so fucking hot,” Zayn hisses, lips parted, eyes too dark to read.

“Can I?” Liam asks, a tentative hand reaching out and he’s curling his fingers around Zayn’s cock before he gets a response.

Zayn groans lowly, the sound vibrating in his chest and Liam licks his lips in anticipation.  His thumb works the underside of Zayn’s cock, fingers tightening, thick drops of precome nearly washed away by the waterfall from above.  Zayn arches his back, soft little whines caught in his throat as Liam strokes him and Liam inches forward on his knees – the hard surface of the tub already uncomfortable but tolerable.

He admires Zayn’s cock in his hand, the way it throbs and weeps.  It twitches when Liam twists his wrist on the down stroke, blots out thicker drops of precome when Liam dabs at the slit.  It’s dark and a little curved and, fuck, Liam thinks it would be perfect inside of him.  He thinks it would stretch him just enough and _full_ , yeah, it’d make him ache for it days after.

He bites on the tip of his tongue to hold back a plea for just that.

Zayn moans impatiently, working his hips until he’s fucking himself on Liam’s hand.  Liam grins and Zayn shrugs lazily out of his shirt until it drops next to Liam’s knees in the shower.  They work his jeans the rest of the way off and Liam lets Zayn teasingly brush his cock against his cheek, a sticky trail of precome left against Liam’s bottom lip when Zayn taps it against Liam’s mouth like _open up, just for me babe_.

“You can come in my mouth,” Liam whispers absentmindedly and he swoops in to swallow Zayn all the way down before Zayn can utter a response.

The weight of Zayn’s prick on his tongue, the musky taste, the way he can swallow around the head sets shivers down his skin.  His jaw relaxes instinctively, head bobbing, and he’s careful not to gag after the first few mistaken tries.  He slurps at Zayn’s dick, eyes closed with wet lashes leaving drops of water like tears down his cheeks.

Fingers bite against his scalp and they turn careful, apologetic when Liam hisses.  He sucks teasingly around the head of Zayn’s cock until Zayn cautiously lifts his hips and draws them back.  It’s a fevered kind of fire that itches down Liam’s skin as he lets Zayn fuck into his mouth.  It’s a reversal of power, something he coos at and, unknowingly, _wants_.  He lets his jaw go slack, fingers digging into Zayn’s thighs until tiny finger-shaped white marks on Zayn’s skin turn red.  He angles his head just enough and breathes through his nose when Zayn’s cock touches the back of his throat.

“ _Leeyum_ ,” Zayn gasps, rocked into a dazed state that Liam thrives on.

Liam groans around Zayn’s cock with a hand on the back of his skull and another one permitting kind fingers to stroke his chin.  He gasps when Zayn’s cock falls out of his mouth, grinning down at the shiny flesh.  The back of his hand wipes precome and saliva from his lips before he’s curling fingers around Zayn’s prick to stroke him off.

“So close.”

Liam nods, his tongue licking out to slide between the slit.  He strokes Zayn with a little more earnest, the noise of their moans and skin on skin echoing off the shower walls.  His knees ache and his neck is starting to stiffen but he bows his head once more to take Zayn deep, hollowing his cheeks.

Something angelic and pleased swipes over Zayn’s face when Liam swirls his tongue around the head for a few too many beats.  His hard cock pulses in Liam’s mouth and Liam has to reach down, squeeze roughly just to relieve some of the ache that’s leaving his legs numb and his heart in his stomach.

“Faster babe,” Zayn begs and Liam’s compliant, desperate even.

He sets a new speed to the way he bobs his head, the pressure of his fingers on the shaft, the flicks of his tongue that keep rewarding him with thicker, sweeter drops of precome.  Water splashes down his neck and he thinks _never surrender_ when Zayn grips his head again to fuck his throat for a minute or two.

“Better than,” Zayn bites down on the last few words, whimpering and arching his back high and tight.  His fingers slip against the wall and Liam grips his hips to support him.  He bares all of his strength into his arms and his jaw and his fucking tongue until Zayn’s nothing but breathy little pants that keep going higher and higher in octave.

“I can back off,” Zayn heaves out, fingers curled against Liam’s jaw once more.  “I can come on your chest.”

“Mouth,” Liam replies, quick and it sounds pleading.  Like he’s willing.  Like he wants, no, Liam _needs_ it.  He needs this stamp of approval, this little reminder to Zayn that he just wants to please Zayn.

He wants to be everything and anything.

“C’mon on babe,” Liam says hotly, warm breaths against Zayn’s slick prick reducing Zayn to sharp groans that sound urgently impatient.  “On my tongue.  In my mouth.”

Liam licks a broad stripe up the underside of Zayn’s cock before he adds, “Down my throat.”

“Oh fuck you,” Zayn gasps, both hands cradling Liam’s head before he’s pushing in, further, right against the back of Liam’s mouth.  He’s a few shakes, twitching thighs, and a bowed spine as he comes down Liam’s throat.  He pulls back just a little so it slicks Liam’s tongue, so Liam can taste him and Liam’s incredibly thankful for _manners and pleasantries_.

He’s swallowing down something unpleasantly bitter but welcomingly sweet with Zayn keeping him afloat against the wall.  Steam rises all around them – hotel showers and their endless hot water – and Zayn’s his lifeline for seconds as he tries to recover.

Zayn presses sloppy kisses to his mouth, ones that are all tongue and teeth and just the way he likes them after moments like this one.  Those nimble fingers move against his scalp and cradle the nape of his neck and he swears Zayn’s whispering things that feel too endearing and sweet for this.  He cups himself, his thumb outlining the head through soaked briefs, and the pressure still isn’t enough with Zayn nearly naked now and still too many clothes separating them.

“I think I’ll be quite horrible at giving head,” Zayn starts, smirking against Liam’s cheek, his hand creasing over the one Liam has pressed to his throbbing cock, “but can I give it a go with you?”

Liam squeaks out something that sounds so inhuman before he furrows his brow and turns his head a little.

“You haven’t before?” Liam asks brokenly, his voice so foreign.  “I mean, this is your first time?  Y’know, with a blow job.”

Blush streaks Zayn’s cheeks, hot and heavy, before he shakes his head.  “Once,” he admits, his voice thin and low.  “With Ant.”

Liam tries to school his expression and settle the rise of jealousy because, no, he _wasn’t_ expecting that.  No, he wants to be Zayn’s _first_ – _and last everything_ , he muses – but he doesn’t say otherwise.

“It was only for like five minutes,” Zayn assures him, sympathetic suddenly and Liam doesn’t need to be pacified.  He doesn’t need to be felt sorry for because it’s not like it matters.  Not between mates, right?

Liam shrugs, looking away and he doesn’t have a chance to scrub away the defeated look on his face before Zayn’s turning his head back, easing in to kiss Liam quiet.

“It was nothing,” Zayn says against his mouth, their foreheads touching and everything feels so small with Zayn this close.  He can barely pick out the spectrum of gold and greens and browns in those eyes when Zayn’s this near but he doesn’t mind.

“It means _something_ with you,” Zayn adds with a whisper of confidence in his tone that Liam can’t comprehend.  “So can I?”

Liam nods without thinking, settling his hands on Zayn’s shoulders.  He doesn’t push, simply _guides_ , and Zayn follows but not without peppering a few kisses to Liam’s lips.

“Tell me if ‘m bad or if I completely muck it up, babe.”

Liam can’t imagine Zayn’s ever been bad at _anything_ , surely not a blowjob.  Still, he nods because that look in Zayn’s eyes cries for worry and nerves and a reckless insecurity that Liam can’t bear to observe.

He pushes hair off his forehead, watches Zayn peel off that snapback and drop it into the river of water swirling at Liam’s feet.  He rests his head against the shower wall when Zayn descends and he’s barely peeled off his jersey when Zayn licks slowly around the head, taking Liam in halfway to the root.

His fist thuds against the wall, legs nearly giving away and Zayn’s so enthusiastic.  He’s skilled and his tongue plays like fingers against acoustic strings.  He slurps around the head, fingers pushing back Liam’s foreskin until the tip of his tongue fits into that nice groove of the slit.  He sits back on his heels and his stubble drags along the inside of Liam’s thigh when he slides further down.

“Oh babe,” Liam whines, his heart drumming louder than marching bands.  His hips stutter and he slides from Zayn’s lips just that easily.

Zayn hums, smiling with spit and precome glossing his lips.  His tongue slides out, collects everything wet, and Liam tries not to sound needy as he thrusts into Zayn’s loose fist.  His spine coils while Zayn strokes him slow like falling honey, brushing soft kisses over the head.

“’s good?” Zayn asks, his tongue dragging a long, flat stroke over the shaft.  “S’okay?”

Liam groans, impatient and the oxygen is kicked out of him when Zayn swallows him down with a little more dedication.

His breaths get heavier as he guides trembling fingers through Zayn’s thick hair, pulling the fringe from Zayn’s eyelashes and slicking it backward.  He rolls his hips just a little, pushes forward until Zayn moans and steadies him with a firm hand.  He gasps on something resembling air and waits until Zayn’s gathered enough courage to work Liam into his throat, teeth dragging sharply along the taut skin on his retreat.

“Fuck, you’re big,” Zayn heaves out and Liam grins at the blush that immediately attacks his cheeks.  He drags wet fingers along Zayn’s stubble, lifting his chin, giving Zayn room to breathe and escape his own thoughts.

“The girls say that a lot, huh,” Zayn whispers, still painfully shamed and innocent.

“Doesn’t matter,” Liam says back, narrowing his eyes.  “What _you_ say matters.”

He catches the hitch in Zayn’s breathing, the way he ducks his head a little before saying quietly, “You ruin me, Payne.  You just.”  The other words fade beneath the pounding water and Zayn’s sucking loosely around the head with saliva dribbling down his chin.

Liam can barely find balance, feet slipping on the water-slick porcelain floor, fingers grabbing at nothing, and Zayn keeps humming around his cock like a practiced porn star.  He wonders what Zayn would look like under that cheap lighting, filthy sheets, back arched with lube smeared down his thighs and around a slick, pink hole.  He breathes in steam like smoke from a joint and his eyes flutter shut at the way Zayn’s trading off between sucking and licking and stroking.

The buzz is unbearable but he feels lightheaded, circling his hips until Zayn’s tongue curls around the head and toys with the foreskin.

There’s a tongue to the slit, strong fingers grabbing his hip for support, and a finger playing at his hole like Zayn knows exactly what he needs.  Like Zayn has been there, in the dark of his room, through sweaty nights with Liam’s right hand around his cock and his left hand working cheap drug store lube against his hole until two fingers slide in deep enough to press against – _there, right there_.

Liam heaves, suffocates on a breath and he pushes back on Zayn’s middle finger rather than fucking up into his mouth.  Some sort of aborted noise reaches his tonsils and never makes it further.  That fire catching bright and wide in his stomach spreads up his chest, down his thighs.  His teeth hold the tip of his tongue like Zayn’s lips hold the edge of his cock and he’s so close to coming.

“Babe,” he breathes out, soft and low, too quiet over the rush of water still slicking their skin.

Fingers run over the skulls on Zayn’s shoulders, down across ink that he knows in the dark but can’t make out in the bright lights of the bathroom.  Patience cracks for unresolved tension and the edge feels even closer.

It’s a small shift of that finger, curling inside of Liam until it presses against a tiny bundle of nerves and this is what exploding stars look like.  Oranges and gold and reds behind his eyelids and Liam has nothing to anchor him to the ground anymore.

“Zayn,” he pleads, drawing his prick back, working onto that finger, “please.”

His dick pops out of Zayn’s mouth, the sound _wet_ and _obscene_ and the glazed over eyes he’s greeted with blurs out the white noise crackling in his ears.  He’s just hefty pants and fingers curling against the back of Zayn’s head before he’s coming over Zayn’s knuckles, streaks spurting out to decorate Zayn’s shoulder white for seconds.  The water washes it away but does little to stop his shivering or the way he’s still unable to keep it together with Zayn fucking that finger, adding another one so casually, inside of him.

He’s sore and impossibly slick from water and drunk off alcohol – no, _nirvana, Liam that’s what it’s called_ , he tells himself much later – and his bed is so easy to crawl into when Zayn’s already there cuddled to his pillow on _Liam’s_ side of the bed.

There’s faint blush stroked against severely defined cheeks with a nice scattering of stubble that robs Zayn of youth but adds to the appeal.  His hair sits flat and there’s a droop to his eyes like Zayn just wants sleep but his fingers sneak up against Liam’s bare hip the moment he climbs over the sheets that says _‘more, Liam; I want more of you if you’ll let me.’_

Liam winks at him, hides his embarrassment behind a stolen pillow from Zayn’s already cold side of the bed and their legs tangle instinctively.  He ignores the way Zayn’s touches seem a little shier, hesitant because lines have been crossed, definitions indefinite now.  He eyes the line of Zayn’s jaw and the way his lashes beat so prettily against his cheeks and the honesty written so bright into those green-freckled gold eyes.

He kisses Zayn to silence questions they both should ask.  Their fingers meet somewhere beneath the sheets and Liam doesn’t bother to roll onto Zayn’s side of the bed for the rest of the night.  He cuddles up to Zayn’s back, draws him in, and they make the half of the bed they occupy the biggest space in the room.

**

“Come with me.”

Zayn blinks up at him with bright, curious eyes mid-afternoon with the sun an orb of glittery gold in a watercolor azure sky.  He’s chewing on his thumbnail, thoughtful but still smiling like Liam’s offering him the world.

Liam thinks, on some level, he _is_.  Or he would if he could.

“You can’t be serious,” Louis whines from the other couch with a hand waving them off and a cup of tea in the other one.  “You’re going to waste away a perfectly fantastic day on some stupid film about – “

“Lou, don’t you dare insult Clark Kent or Krypton or the beauty of a world run on values rather than violence,” Liam argues with a small pout and his fingers reaching out to drag over Zayn’s product-stiff quiff.

Zayn doesn’t shy away and it gives Liam little bursts of encouragement to trace the definition of Zayn’s cheek, the sharp jaw that follows.

“Honestly Li,” Harry says with a soft snicker behind a newspaper.  Liam can read his grin through the black and white print but ignores it in favor of tugging on the collar of Zayn’s Obey t-shirt.  “It’s just a film.”

Zayn squeaks out his disgust and Liam smiles down at him fondly, his thumb dragging just under Zayn’s bottom lip.  He remembers the kisses he left there this morning when the world was quiet except for their beating hearts and uncertainty of where this was going.

Those kind of answers were still hidden away in the questions they won’t ask each other.

“Peter Parker is far more fascinating,” Louis adds offhandedly.

“Spider-Man is secondary to things like _Man of Steel_ , you twat,” Liam insists and he smirks when Louis flips him off and hides his own grin behind the lip of his mug.

“You lot can be quiet at any moment now, yeah?  Some of us are quite hungover still,” Niall announces from the floor, lying on his back with a pair of Harry’s Ray Bans on, white-blonde hair mussed, and Louis’ joggers hanging loosely off his pale hips.

“Was she worth it?” Harry asks from the breakfast table, folding up the newspaper with a smile.

Niall sighs and Liam imagines he’s probably rolling his eyes.

“The threesome and nutting off twice in the span of an hour and massively great blowjob was,” Niall announces with a small grin and a halfhearted breath.  “The phone call from some bird’s boyfriend and one of the blondes begging me to follow her on Twitter this morning was not.”

“Cheap and kind of gross,” Louis laughs out, squeezing lemon into his tea while digging a toe into Niall’s hip.

“The definition of Niall Horan,” Harry says with a shrug, smiling sweetly at Louis with a cup of espresso in his hand and there’s a break in Louis’ expression that tells Liam they might all have secrets too now.

Liam ignores the way Harry and Louis quickly look away from each other like wild hearts and abandon dreams are betraying them to lean in closer to Zayn.  He’s close enough he can smell cigarettes and cinnamon and he can lick away the smearing of strawberry jam on Zayn’s lips if he wants to.  He can kiss Zayn so slow, languid and accomplished, but resolve peters off lust before he sinks those few millimeters.

“C’mon Zayn,” Liam pleads, his voice warm and something tight snaps in his chest at the lift of Zayn’s smile.  “Just you and me, babe.  You, me, Krypton and a bag of M&M’s.”

Zayn grins, cheeks blotted in a gorgeous pink that Liam hopes spreads down Zayn’s chest and between his thighs.  He fits his fingers into Zayn’s hair again, smirking when Zayn leans into the touch for seconds too brief.

“And popcorn,” Zayn requests, his nose wrinkling with his smile.

“Salt and butter.”

Zayn sighs happily, unfolding his legs from beneath him and rocking a little closer to Liam.  Just a brush of their noses offsets Liam and he’s craning back before he closes the gap for a kiss.  It’s just too easy and Liam finds this chase, new and amazing like still-life paintings, breathtaking in its purpose rather than its possible outcome.

“Borrow one of your shirts?” Zayn bargains, stretching before letting Liam pull him up from the couch.  There’s something wicked and mused playing on his pink lips.

 _And my heart_ , Liam thinks, smiling to himself but he settles a hand on Zayn’s hip instead to say, “Already got a car downstairs waiting.”

“Yes, yes, go away,” Niall groans, kicking his feet at nothing.  “Fuck, this is not one of those trashy soaps Haz watches.  Fuck off you two.”

Harry furrows his brow, tossing leftover toast at Niall.  “ _Coronation Street_ is not – “

“It _is_ ,” Louis and Niall say together and Liam hides a laugh in the crook of Zayn’s neck, dragging him from the suite before the war can erupt.

They’re in a near-empty theater at the Palms and Zayn keeps going on about the rich history and MTV and ‘ _the Real World, Liam, remember’_ with the lights shining dim and dull and a bag of popcorn propped on the armrest between them.  It’s the one thing keeping them apart – a reminder that space and boundaries should still be relevant to two boys who can’t say what they should – but Zayn’s leg keeps jiggling and their thighs brush, fingers meeting in the middle of the bag.  Liam shares a root beer with Zayn and they giggle into each other’s shoulders at the older couple six rows down and the eager kids near the front row who keep going on about the Daily Planet and Kal-El like they’ve read each comic cover-to-cover.

He lets Zayn feed him handfuls of popcorn, licking away the salt and the oily butter until he knows the definition of Zayn’s fingers on places other than the small of his back or his hips or the meat of his thighs.  He slides a hand into Zayn’s lap to still that nervous leg, squeezing gently because it’s just them, always has been.  Zayn ducks his head to hide a grin but Liam chases it with his eyes, smiling back until his cheeks ache.

When the lights dim for the previews and the opening montage to this silly cinema, Zayn pushes the armrest out of the way and his shoulders fall under the weight of the arm Liam wraps around them.  They kick feet up on the seats in front of them and this feels irrevocably _perfect_ and _familiar_.  Its nights in Liam’s bedroom with _Batman Returns_ playing on repeat until they can recite every line and finish off two boxes of pizza before Selina Kyle’s pushed through that glass office building window.

Zayn drags stubble against Liam’s collarbone during the beginning, scratches dull nails down the back of his hand when Zod kills Jor-El and Liam absently turns his hand over to fit Zayn’s fingers between his.  His chest fills – _pride, affection, desperate want_ – when Zayn squeezes his fingers tightly and they stay like that, sweaty palms and the world sealed off, all through Lois Lane’s first appearance and the battle in the streets of Smallville.

Liam watches Zayn’s excitement more than he does the film – he doesn’t tell Zayn he’s already seen it on opening night with Andy and Harry in tow because _firsts_ , he needs those with Zayn – and he prays the darkness of the theater hides his pink cheeks when Zayn catches him staring.  Zayn snorts, tickling fingers up Liam’s side before tossing fistfuls of cold popcorn into his mouth.

“Watch this,” Liam whispers against Zayn’s ear, fingers on his chin to lift it high enough when Superman and Zod collide in the air.

Zayn gasps, sneaky with his fingers as they stroke up the inside of Liam’s thigh and he doesn’t know if he shudders at the sight of Clark snapping Zod’s neck or the pressure Zayn adds when he’s seconds from Liam’s cock.  He bites down on the corner of his lip, hoping to draw blood and siphon his attention from Zayn, and his breathing is a little ragged when Zayn nuzzles close through the end credits.  The spin of endorphins and adrenaline and _you should be high for this_ plays in the back of his mind when Zayn’s fingers rest on his chest to catch the unsteady beat of his heart.

He thinks in eighties and Ruth’s affection for John Cusack and he breathes in this feeling – _Love, I get so lost sometimes. Days pass and this emptiness fills my heart_ – when the lights lift to that pale stream they were earlier.  He lets Zayn rest his chin on his shoulder, the kids below chasing each other around the seats, pretending to fly and escape realism.  He grins, nudges Zayn off to take in the sugary shift of his smile like he’s weightless.  Their fingers stay tangled and breathing seems so much harder like this.

“Amazing,” Zayn finally says when the theater starts to clear out some and their still reclining in their seats.  “Fucking brilliant, Li.”

Liam nods, a dopey grin across his mouth and his cheeks heat up because he’s just this daft over Zayn now, isn’t he?  Just simply – _All my instincts, they return. And the great façade, so soon will burn. Without a noise, without my pride_ – and inarguably _gone_ for him.

“We should see it again,” Zayn suggests and Liam laughs it off, leaning into Zayn to nudge an elbow to his ribs.  “’m serious.  Just screw the day, yeah?  Me and you and fucking _Man of Steel_ , dude.  We could get ice cream and it’d be gangster, babe, I swear.”

Liam nods though he doesn’t mean it.  He’s helpless against the way Zayn’s nose scrunches, the corners of his eyes creasing sweetly, and he’d do _anything_ for this boy.  He always would.

“Can’t wait for the new Thor,” Liam declares, trying to fight off sudden instinct to chase Zayn’s laughs with kisses and stupid jokes.

“Me too,” Zayn sighs out, drawing in until their foreheads touch for a brief moment.  “I’ll drive up for the weekend, yeah?  We can see it together.  You know you want to.”

Somewhere, beneath layers and layers of denial, Liam hopes Zayn would drive up for more than cheap popcorn, Loki, and one night in the dark of a stuffed cinema.

 _For me_ , he thinks sadly, eyes lowering, _drive up for me and my bed and the way I want you there always, Zayn, whenever_.

He drags his knuckles over the rough of Zayn’s black jeans, down over the holes at the knees where he can touch bare skin and remember where the bruises on the flesh there came from.  He’s shameless with the blush that beats against his cheeks when he looks at Zayn with such adoration it should be outlawed.

“I could stay with you?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out because words are something he hasn’t mastered when it comes to this boy.  “I’d like that.”

“I’d like that,” Zayn repeats, lips moving into a smile that quirks the corners of his lips so high.

The lights spin, cool white and dulled yellow, and Liam counts Zayn’s breaths to the sound of his heart – _In your eyes I see the light and the heat. In your eyes, oh, I want to be that complete_ – meter and measure, little tactics he learned in a music class back home.  His thumb grazes Zayn’s bottom lip and there’s not enough space in time to quantify how long it takes him to finally close the distance.

He thinks it’s timing that made him wait until the theater was empty or until the ushers weren’t waiting in the doorway for them to leave.  He tastes sugar on Zayn’s tongue, a hint of root beer and a saltiness from too many hands in the popcorn.  He licks at Zayn’s teeth and waits until Zayn’s little whimpers turn into deep and hollowed moans before he adds just a little more pressure.

The thick hair on the back of Zayn’s head tickles his palm and this is far from friendly and unmemorable.  It’s romantic like fifteen year olds on Valentine’s but that doesn’t matter.  The taste of Zayn’s mouth and the way his heart cracks against his chest plate does.  There’s a tightness in his stomach and he draws back for oxygen and nothing else.

“Liam,” Zayn whispers and Liam chases off the last of those words with his lips because they don’t matter.

The way their lips fit together in the mid-lit cinema – perfectly soft and wet and dreams are made of this – does.

**

They skip a formal dinner their second to last night there and Liam’s never seen something as electric as the casino at the Mirage during Niall’s poker tournament.

Niall’s brilliant at this: betting before the turn, catching luck on the river, doubling up on the big blinds, and Liam doesn’t really understand all of the terminology or the order of winning hands but he leans back on his stool at the bar with a grin and the kind of pride that feels brotherly when Niall pulls in stack after stack of colorful chips.  His blonde hair is stuffed down under an Incredible Hulk snapback he nicked from Liam’s much smaller collection and he’s got a pair of neon pink Ray Ban’s Harry bought him somewhere between the Rivera and Circus-Circus earlier that afternoon.  He’s leaning over the table, toying with his chips like a magician with his loose tank top showing off miles and miles of pale skin and a kicked up grin on his lips – his poker face is horrible but Liam doesn’t think anyone really notices.

He’s just smiles and pure joy and hand after hand of _pure fucking luck_ , Liam swears.

The tables surrounding the floor are stuffed with players – old men in cowboy hats and button-downs; young lads like Niall with their California-edge, baggy hoodies, and surfer-deluxe style; women with too much lipstick, smoky eyes, tops cut low enough to show off the veins in their breasts; Uni kids who spend more time playing online poker than socializing with the real world.  A few of the occupants burn out quickly – a little too much bet on an ace and a king before the flop – but waitresses keep dropping off tequila sunrises, Long Island’s, shots with salted-rims and lime wedges, cold beers in frosted glasses until one by one the tables get smaller and smaller.

“Got’a admit it.  The kid is smashing it,” Harry notes, saluting Niall with a raised beer and gleaming green eyes.

Liam nods with a grin, sipping slowly at the watered down pineapple and rum in a rock glass.  He sniffs when Niall busts another player – a fortunate draw of three hearts on the flop this time – while Harry cheers loudly, ignoring the little looks he gets from a couple at the end of the bar.

Harry flirts his way into a complementary Michelob from the bartender and Liam’s almost forgotten how amazingly brilliant he is at charming his way into almost anything.  He tips it back with a grin, nudging Liam’s side before setting his sights on Niall’s table, quiet for the next round, a little more attentive when Niall folds rather than leading in with two queens.  A smirk folds over cherry lips before Harry’s leaning back, swinging an arm around Liam’s shoulder and ordering up two shots of some unheard of Russian vodka that Liam knows he’ll regret in the morning.

“Quite a holiday, yeah?” Harry offers up after the shots are swallowed and the burn sizzles unpleasantly in their chests.

Liam nods, coughs on the sting with tears lining his eyes.  “Brilliant.”

Harry smirks, forgoing solemn and contemplative – two looks he’s managed to master during this post-breakup-mourning – before he adds, “The bloke seems to be having loads of fun.  Quite lucky with the cards and the ladies.”

Liam laughs out a response, eyes crinkling with lips curving.  He sips at his drink once more, settling the vodka in the pit of his stomach as the rum does little too cool the after effects.  He knocks his shoulder against Harry’s, tipping up his grin because it’s been too long since it’s been just the two of them without books or papers or _‘the meaning of life is Louis Tomlinson, Liam, I swear’_ sliding off of Harry’s tongue.

“And you,” Harry says, slow like usual but with a curl to his tongue like the rest will be harmful.  “You seem to be having a massive amount of fun too?  With _him_.”

Liam blinks at Harry for a moment, fingers curling against his jeans.  He steadies his expression into something blank but the rush of pink against his cheeks divulges all of his secrets immediately.

“’m not judging,” Harry says quickly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender.  His dimple flares in that delicately cheeky way that Liam’s grown to love over the years.  “It’s nice.  Seeing you smile with someone.  Be yourself.”

Liam nods slowly, teeth working against the flesh of his bottom lip.

“It’s nice,” he repeats, everything coming out heavy – his voice, the words, his thoughts.

Niall bows out of a few more hands before catching a win with a Jack of hearts and a four, hiding probably candle-lit blue eyes behind those dark shades.  Harry gives a little fist pump, all exaggerated movements with a smirk and curls bouncing.

“Fancy him now?” Harry wonders, taking a healthy sip of beer.  He’s watching Liam from the corner of his eye with an arched eyebrow that says _give up your innocence to bad intentions_ and Liam sighs softly in response.

“Of course you do.  That happy chappie is fucking gorgeous,” Harry teases, poking at Liam’s side with his index finger.  “And you get on so well.  Always have, Li, you know it.  Almost better than you and me.”

 _Better_ , Liam thinks, ducking his head while his fingers drag over the nape of his neck.  He toes at the carpet of the casino, finishes off the rest of his rum, plucking out the cherry before ordering another.

Harry’s smirk lifts like helium over his lips, long fingers pushing curls aside, un-stylized.  He sips at his beer with the kind of considerate look that shows the tell in his wide forest green eyes: he’s proud of Liam.  He leans into Harry’s touch when fingers run kindly through his hair.

They speak in some kind of silent, brotherly language that consists of goofy grins, fist bumps, and toasting beers – Liam lets Harry buy him an off-brand amber ale that tastes slick and bitter but it’s in secret solidarity for Niall – and Liam teases Harry for another three hands about baby pictures, kissing Emily Peters by that old oak tree in Liam’s backyard with cotton candy pink lips, and that time he and Louis tried to shag in the shower – “Shampoo in _your eye_ and who uses rose scented body wash for lube, Haz, that’s not sanitary.”  They capture pictures on Harry’s phone, attack Louis’ Twitter with hashtags that make no sense, and Liam laughs into Harry’s shoulder when an older – _much, much older_ – woman hits on him and buys him a shot of room temperature Patron.

“You miss him still, yeah?” Liam asks when Niall’s knocked off another three players with a bigger pile of chips and three empty mugs of beer next to his cards.

Harry clears his throat, knocks back a shot of Jameson in celebration of the Rihanna that’s been playing on and off for hours before shrugging.

“Honestly?”

Liam nods quickly and he’s rocking forward with a creased brow.  He taps idle fingers against Harry’s thigh, chewing at his bottom lip until it’s sore and swollen.

Harry reaches into the basket of chips they ordered thirty minutes ago, swirling a few into ketchup and mustard – “We’re in _America_ , Li.  Traditionalism falls victim to adventurism and impracticality here.” – before sliding them between his lips.  He chews and licks the salt from his fingers and thumbs at Liam’s hairline like a nervous twitch he’s sorting out.

“Sometimes,” Harry says, low and shyly.  He huffs out a sigh, tipping his head back.  “All the time.”

“But – “

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry interjects with a stern tone.  He’s looking off into the casino rather than at Liam and it says an echo of things Harry’s mouth refuses to.

“It does,” Liam insists, fingers trying to dig at impossibly tight denim until they leave marks up Harry’s thighs.  “It fucking does.”

Harry huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.  He stretches back, curving an arm to Liam’s shoulders again, that put on whimsical expression see-through like sheer curtains.

His free hand, with the tattoos curling up his forearm and hiding beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his Oxford, steals Liam’s beer and Liam allows him to drain the rest of it with a smile.

“He’s made up his mind,” Harry states, blinking at Liam in a mild attempt to disguise disappointment.  “God fucking forbid he give it some more thought.”

Liam swallows a sigh, discouraged as he thinks of Friday night rugby matches in an almost sold-out stadium with the flood of arena lights glowing against yellow-green grass.  It’s always the same: Harry somewhere in the stands bundled up in scarves and a thick coat, cheering loudly for Louis with a pink nose.  Sometimes Niall’s to his right, mostly Zayn to his left while Louis and Liam scamper up the pitch with mud on their kits and grass sticking to their thighs.  Gatorades and pizzas in those same stands after the game, Louis in Harry’s lap, Liam’s head on Zayn’s shoulder and the cold kick of October air biting at their skins as they celebrate another victory – not from the game, but from another night of just _his boys_ and uninhibited freedom.

He frowns, hiding it behind another beer, and he can’t quite remember life being more complex than now.

“My mum misses him around the holidays and, fuck, Gemma asks about him every other minute,” Harry laughs out, the sound coming out broken, so tinny and strangled.

Liam nods, teeth working against his bottom lip again – “How’s _Zayn_?” “Have you talked to him?” “Bring him home one of these days, yeah?” and his mum’s voice sounds so fucking _delighted_ when Liam promises he will, one day.

“Peach-flavored,” Harry scoffs, another shot of something gold, a fistful of chips to follow.  “That fucking twit loves peach-flavored drinks and I can’t stop myself from wanting to buy him a new pair of Vans all of the time.  And every time I think of a new tattoo, I think of that stupid _compass_ and this _ship_ and why the fuck does he love _Runaway Bride_ so much?”

Liam leans into Harry’s side, fingers becoming endearing and sympathetic against Harry’s leg now.  He nicks Harry’s Bud Light, swallows a fourth of it while Harry goes on about classes starting up and the newspaper and anything not related to Louis until Liam almost forgets to applaud when the tournament dwindles down to a handful of players, one of them being Niall.

Niall grins stupidly at them over his shoulder and Liam’s the one who lets out a whoop this time because even the small victories feel like achievements now.

When Niall comes in third and walks away with a hefty amount of the prize money – “Pure luck left me a long time ago, sweet Liam James.  I _am_ a rock star.” – Liam begs off the shots of Captain Morgan’s Niall buys them.  He settles for a glass of Coke and some of Niall’s steak with a gaggle of girls teasing at Niall’s hair, sneaking his snapback, and some bouncy brunette curled up in Liam’s lap.

They trade off stories for the girls – mostly Niall and Harry and tales of the Summer of Sixteen Year Old Virgins, as Harry calls it – while the girl in Liam’s lap keeps hiccupping out giggles and hiking her skirt higher as some mildly casual – or painfully apparent – attempt at flirting.

“Your eyes,” she coos, rubbing at the nape of his neck while tossing lengthy hair over her shoulder, “and these hands.”

Liam’s blushing that sturdy pink hue and letting the bubbles from the Coke tickle his nose and he’s got a patient, steady hand on her hip when he spots Zayn leaning against the bar with narrowed eyes and a curl to his lip.  He freezes with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and Zayn jerks out a nod like he’s saying _this is okay_.  Like he doesn’t give two shits and he’s grabbing some takeaway for dinner without uttering a word to Liam.

But those eyes – solid gold turning dark, disappointed even in the bright lights of the bar – speak volumes and pages of _just mates, my arse_.

Her fingers play along his collar and in his hair and Liam thinks it would be a bit rude to just shove her to the floor but he wants to when Zayn spins around and walks off.  He stays stiff for a moment, even when her glossy lips press a kiss to his flushed cheeks and her words _promise I can suck you real good_ and _let you fuck me_ and _God I’m so drunk I could get off on your face_.  He nudges her up, apologetic without words and Niall’s fingers catch around his wrist when he does his best to discreetly follow Zayn toward the elevators.

“Alright mate?” Niall asks with a wrinkled brow and some girl’s lipstick smeared over his mouth.

 _No_ comes out as “brilliant” and he gives Niall one of those halfhearted smiles that Niall chuckles at.

“Fucking idiot,” Niall laughs, nudging Liam past the slot machines and around the corner toward the lifts with a playful slap to Liam’s arse.  “Go get ‘im tiger.”

“Mary Jane Watson,” Harry squeals out with a giggle induced more by alcohol rather than genuine amusement.

Liam doesn’t flip him off immediately when he goes to round the corner but he doesn’t stop when he nearly collides with Louis or when the elevator takes far too long to reach ground level again because his heart thumps like animals in the wild – Just mates.  _Just mates_.  Just, _fuck_.

**

Zayn’s biting thoughtfully at his bottom lip when the door swings open – and Liam pretends not to feel wounded that it takes _seventeen_ knocks, _yes he counted_ , before he hears the footfalls moving toward the door – and Liam just wants to explain or one-off it or plead with Zayn to stop looking so standoffish.

Liam leans into the doorway, as far as he can get in because Zayn hasn’t fully opened the door and he’s got one foot in and one out – and it just feels so ironic and literal in his mind.  He parts his lips into a small, tiny smile that barely nudges at his cheeks and Zayn blinks at him – once, thrice, _five_ times – before pulling fingers through his loose hair.

“Can I come in?”

Zayn waits in the silence for a little too long before shrugging and kicking the door the rest of the way open.  He disappears back into the shadows of the room, the night sky a hefty blue-almost-black pitch that Liam sees through the curtains.  He hip checks the door closed as he follows Zayn in and the bluish glow from Zayn’s laptop is the only trace of light in the room outside of the bathroom and the slow awakening stars far too high up to illuminate much.

“ _Kick-Ass_ , innit?” Liam asks as Zayn plops down on the bed, the mattress dipping before springing back to life under Zayn’s feathery weight.

Zayn hums a reply, not giving as much attention to the screen as he is Liam, leaning back on his palms.  His teeth still work purposely against his lip, the skin a tinged ruby in the dark like cocoa dyed red velvet and Liam immediately thinks of his own mouth against that swollen lip, the taste of something sweet and the slow build of _familiar_.  He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes on his feet to drown out the thoughts and Zayn’s breathing is the only sound louder than the clattering of his heart.

“Y’wanna talk?” he asks after minutes – _seconds_ maybe but it feels like _hours_ – and Zayn’s feet are kicking back and forth like a child.

Seventeen in his mind and Liam leading Zayn through a lake until he begs off swimming for survival and Liam smiles against Zayn’s neck as he helps him float through the dark water and the fear.

“If you wanna,” Zayn says and his tone isn’t cold but there’s nothing warm about it.  It’s like the calm in the midst of a tornado, too, too quiet.

“Zayn, I – “

“She was pretty,” Zayn admits and Liam doesn’t have to lift his head to hear the bitterness in his smile.  “Did you wanna fuck her?”

“No,” he says immediately, head snapping up, fingers curling at his sides.

He means it, resolute like a brick wall, and Zayn nods slowly with that curling smile.

“You could’ve,” Zayn says, still impartial and lifeless.

“Because,” Liam swallows, narrowing his eyes for a second, “you wouldn’t care?”

Zayn breaks on a breath, his chest heaving and his face tightens.  “I _would_.  Fuck, Liam, I would.”

Liam’s breaths come slower now, timed and relief has never felt so liberating.

“But does that matter?”

 _Of course_ , Liam thinks and he’s balking at hesitation until he toes out of his trainers and feet pad across the floor until he’s near the edge of the bed.  He tests his limits – a hand on the mattress, a knee lifted and pressing to the ledge, his brow lowering – and waits until Zayn lets out a strangled noise like _please, come closer_ before he’s climbing on the bed and shortening the distance.

They fold around each other under blue glow and spinning stars and the room is so, so cold – Zayn likes it that way, even in the winter – but Zayn’s fingers dance up his neck and his own curl into the soft cotton of Zayn’s Ramones t-shirt.  His sock-covered foot moves over Zayn’s bare ankle and Zayn noses at his jaw like the half-hour before never happened.

“I didn’t hate her, completely,” Zayn says and when Liam  
arches an eyebrow at him, he finishes with, “Danielle.”

 _Oh_.

Liam eases a hand down Zayn’s back, rolling them until he’s pinned beneath Zayn’s wiry frame and he can pick out the way those long lashes cast half-moon shadows over stubble-covered cheeks.

“You hated her?” Liam asks and Zayn tucks his chin to hide watercolor pink sitting low on his cheeks.

“Not completely.”

“But a _little_ bit?” He’s working fingers over Zayn’s ear, feeling the heat radiating off it while his thumb presses the blush out of Zayn’s cheek.

“A _lot_ ,” Zayn whispers, smiling.  “Loads.”

Liam snorts, tipping his head back as Zayn straddles his waist and it’s the most comfortable he thinks they’ve been in hours.

“Because – “

“Because of you,” Zayn huffs, teeth pulling at his bottom lip until it bruises and Liam wipes away the saliva that sticks to flesh with his index finger.  “Because she had you for so long.  And, fuck, I’m not one of those manic jealous-types, okay?  ‘s not my style.”

 _You’re more cigarettes and rough kisses_ , Liam muses, reaching up to tangle fingers through thick, dark hair.  It squeezes out an embarrassingly sweet noise from Zayn’s throat and he strangles the laugh that threatens to send Zayn scampering away.

“But she made me feel that way.  She made me sick, man,” Zayn adds, his brow wrinkling, a scowl forming.  “The way she walked around like she _owned_ you.  She _can’t_ , dude.  Like not even a little.  I couldn’t help the way I was – “

“Possessive?” Liam offers up with a glinting smile, finally releasing that stubborn laugh when Zayn’s thighs squeeze around his hips.

“’m not,” Zayn growls, digging blunt nails into Liam’s chest.  “Just with you.”

“With me,” Liam hums, pleased.  He’s helpless when Zayn pouts and he wants to crane his neck upward just to lick off that angered roll to Zayn’s eyebrows.

“I don’t know when I sorted it out, y’know, it just happened,” Zayn says, his voice smoky, a quiet guilt like he’s ashamed.  “Like I wasn’t ready.”

Liam lifts his eyebrows, smoothing a kind hand to Zayn’s cheek until those eyes lift again and Liam picks out gold, olive, autumn amber in those orbs and he’s dizzy.

Zayn licks his lips, a shuddering breath passing them when Liam squeezes his hips, works firm fingers up Zayn’s spine.

“You could’ve – “

“I hated when she would kiss you in front of us,” Zayn interrupts, leaning down, breathtakingly close.  “And she’d put her hands on you.  And all I wanted was _my_ hands,” he grips Liam’s bicep, his chest, “on you.  Don’t know why but I did.  And, fuck she didn’t have the right.”

“She was my girlfriend,” Liam says slowly as if it’s all foreign to him.  Just a black and white memory on tattered paper underneath his bed somewhere.

“And quite awful at it,” Zayn licks out, his mouth curved up so viciously with dark eyes and fingers pushing at the veins in Liam’s neck.  “Wouldn’t ever let people like myself get that close to you.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t pay attention.”

Liam swallows hard, his cock fattening, his hands shaky on Zayn’s waist to steady him.

“She didn’t see how special or amazing you are, man,” Zayn whispers, hot and grinning against Liam’s ear.  Teeth nip at his lobe and Liam’s thumbs dig painfully into Zayn’s hips to stop him before the assault is too much.

Before he comes like this – virginal and desperate for more.

“And that bird tonight,” Zayn says, drawing back with a throaty laugh that tightens the muscles in Liam’s stomach, forces his hands to the hem of Zayn’s shirt for a lift, a small peak at skin.

“She was… wasn’t interested, babe, y’know that, right?”

Another chuckle, dark and deep.  His hands are possessive, cloyingly firm against Liam’s skin until he ruffles Liam’s shirt upward.

“But she wanted you,” Zayn says decisively and Liam wants to argue against it but, well, maybe she did. Maybe she made it obvious and Liam might’ve played along but for Niall’s sake, not his own, right?  Not because the possibility interested him like it did with Zayn.

 _With Zayn_.  The thought creases into his mind and he’s shaking when Zayn bends down to drag rough stubble against his jaw, hard suction pressed over his birthmark.

“Couldn’t have me,” Liam sighs out, the sound almost a whine and Liam’s cheek flush neon pink under the shadows.

“Can I?” Zayn wonders, fingers idly stroking the mark his lips left behind.

Liam tilts his head further back, more skin offered, and the response he gives is a moan rather than the _‘yes’_ weighing down his tongue.

“Can I have what she wanted,” Zayn hisses, grinding down against Liam and Liam wants more than anything to get rid of the jeans and sweats separating his cock from the cleft of Zayn’s arse.

“Zayn.”

“Can I suck what she wanted in her mouth because I know she’d be jealous if she knew I’ve already had it,” Zayn whispers with a smirk, nosing at the soft skin under Liam’s jaw.  “ _Twice_.  Fuck, this morning on my knees in your room before you showered and you smelled so fucking _amazing_ and _manly_ without the soap and cologne.”

Liam trembles, fucking cracks at every little hidden seam and his hands rub impatiently up Zayn’s back like _lover, please, I’ll give you whatever you want_.  He fists his fingers into soft hair and he kisses off Zayn’s laugh until a hot tongue licks at his teeth.

“Will you let me slide in you like she probably wanted you to do to her?  Probably wanted your dick inside of her, calling your name like you’re the first and the best and, fuck, babe I want that,” Zayn sighs out, yanking off his shirt and Liam’s follows once they’ve untangled his arms from it.

Their hands meet chests and Liam hopes the ink from wings and red lips smears against his fingertips.  He thrusts his hips up roughly, nearly knocking Zayn off balance but the smaller boy grinds back like, possibly, they could reverse the roles if Liam asked.

And he will, another time, in his own room with the sheets stripped off and warm KY on his fingers.

“I could make it good, I swear,” Zayn promises against Liam’s lips, teeth catching Liam’s bottom lip.  “Make it so good.”

“Great,” Liam moans, tugging on thick hair until Zayn whimpers and he’s lifting up on his elbows to smother hot kisses along Zayn’s neck, trying to bruise skin and mark his presence for everyone to view.

“You’d make it _great_ babe,” Liam adds, smiling into Zayn’s shoulder when Zayn undoes the button of his jeans, folds the zip over Liam’s hard cock.  “You’re going to make it amazing, Zayn.  You can.”

“I can?”

Liam sobs out his _‘yes’_ and Zayn grins, dopey and excited and Liam laughs at how he’s suddenly so boyish.  He’s suddenly so perfect and willing and Liam’s rewarded with a slow kiss that sucks the breath from the top of his lungs.

They slide out of jeans and joggers, pants yanked down to their ankles, and Liam feels suspended from gravity.  Lips chase off wounded sounds – he can’t tell if they’re _his_ or _Zayn’s_ but they echo against the walls and his eardrums – and he tips his head back just slightly for Zayn to set bruises against his neck around his birthmark.  His fingers curl into the sheets and _suffocation_ is the word that sets against his lips when Zayn’s hands shift over his naked hips.

He’s distracted by Zayn’s lips, hands – little breathy noises and snickers that fall from his mouth when Liam breaks and bends so quickly – and misses when Zayn finds the lube somewhere near the pillows at the head of the bed.  He smiles to himself – Zayn’s probably used it more than a few times to wank off – but that expression falls and feels wasted when Zayn drags sharp teeth along the hollow of his neck.  He busies himself with fitting his hands to Zayn’s tattoos – a thumb to the yin-yang, index finger shifting over the outline of crossed-fingers, his pinky stroking _‘Chillin’_ before he’s pressing into the ink of the neatly woven bandana.

The stars shift and spike like swirling comets outside.  His back arches, warm fingers and cold lube sliding from his inner thigh into something darker, and he can barely make out Zayn’s grin against the shadows.  He gasps – this feeling so foreign but Zayn’s lips too familiar now – and his legs spread voluntarily.

“Lift up,” Zayn says, dark and low, against his mouth and Liam can lick off the grin if he wants to now.  “On your knees, babe.”

Liam moves so willingly, needy little sounds when Zayn’s too far away.  His knees dig into the mattress, hands in sheets, his head bowed until the bed dips behind him and _Zayn_ , warm and hot against him.

Nerves expand to something awful and big and Zayn’s right there, lips to the knob on the back of Liam’s neck, whispering, “You look so _fit_ like this babe.  Your arms.  Fuck, your back.  I just want to look at you.”

It’s a lie because Zayn does more than that.  He licks out little initials – _Z_ then _L_ – against the nape of his neck.  His fingers, dull nails so relevant now, dig into Liam’s hip while his other fingers – _oh_.  They slide into Liam with little resistance and Liam wonders how practiced at this Zayn is.  How his fingers move so magically and with such intent.  He bares down and he’s brave enough to admit, when Zayn curls his fingers just right, he never wants them to leave him.

The burn flickers like being wasted on cheap alcohol and Liam hisses, the sound low in his throat and sharp against his teeth  There’s an arch to his neck and Zayn’s teeth prickling against his shoulder until all of the blood rushes to the marks Zayn leaves behind.

“Tight,” Zayn murmurs against his skin, snuffling his nose to the crook of Liam’s neck.  “Relax.”

 _Only for you_ , Liam thinks against the stinging sparks in his brain, the way his body clenches down on Zayn’s fingers.  He’s _push_ and _pull_ and he wills against the sudden need to run from Zayn’s fingers when almost chapped lips pepper soft kisses to his cheek.

“Won’t hurt you,” Zayn promises and the pulse of his heart agrees.

“I know.”

“Another?”

Lim nods quickly because _loose_ , he needs to be loose.  He needs to be opened and the lube drips down the back of his thigh like a shiny river.  He shudders, spine coiling, and the third finger isn’t as intrusive as the first two.

“Babe,” Zayn whispers and his free fingers – the other ones slide further, deeper still until _fuck_ , right along that bundles of nerves – tug at Liam’s chin until his head turns.

He blinks at Zayn, mouth gaped, breaths husky.  He tries to focus beyond those blown pupils, the dark of sharp gold hidden against the sweep of eyelashes.  There’s a tense hold to Zayn’s jaw but his lips, bruised and ruddy, spread into an inviting smile.

“’ve got you,” Zayn say, confident and steady.

Liam nods, teeth finding his bottom lip until Zayn clucks his tongue and he’s barely through an inhale before Zayn’s kissing his eyes shut.  He’s dependent on Zayn’s oxygen and those lips against his hide his thoughts from the fingers that keep stretching him wide and full.

The muscles in his arms stretch wide and sinewy from the pressure of his weight, coiling beneath the skin in neat, long lines.  He catches the sweat the breaks at the back of his neck, the center of his chest, head dropping to watch the way Zayn’s fingers pattern down the four thick chevrons on his forearm.  He sucks in a sharp breath – pleasure isn’t quite measureable like this but he’s willing to guess it’s levels past ten now – and Zayn’s other fingers push and prod at his prostate until his cock drips heavy and thick against his belly and the sheets.

“So hard,” Zayn whispers, his grin stretched and Liam blinks his eyes shut when Zayn’s fingers curl around the shaft.  A thumb strokes back the foreskin, the pink head wet and Liam’s shaking.

“Your dick wants this, babe,” Zayn stutters out, grinding his own cock against the back of Liam’s thigh, the head sticking to Liam’s skin.  “You want this, yeah?  Say it.  C’mon, just a little for me babe.”

Liam groans out something – _yes, fuck me, I need you to break me, inside of me is where you should always be_ – but he can’t make out the words against Zayn’s hoarse laugh or the way he can hear the muscles in his thighs snapping as he spreads his legs a little further.  He tips his arse up – fuck, he must look completely desperate and selfish and horny – and when Zayn’s fingers still, he whines and works himself onto them.

“Just let me get the condom on and – “

“Fuck Zayn,” Liam gasps, knees aching from the pressure but he won’t let up.  “C’mon already.  Like, fuck.  Man, I _can’t_.”

He can’t see it but he knows Zayn’s nodding.  He’s fumbling around behind Liam, fingers freed from Liam’s hole, and the sweat that clings to Liam’s head keeps him in focus.  His knuckles are pale and white, fingers still tangled in the sheets until Zayn draws him up and back.  He scoots willingly – _such a little slut for him_ , he laughs to himself – and his cheeks heat up when Zayn’s tongue meets his ear.

“Let me know if I need to stop,” Zayn whispers and before Liam can curl his brain around such things as vocabulary and rules and parameters, the head of Zayn’s cock pushes at the stretched ring and Liam meets bliss before pain registers.

The shadows make Zayn’s duvet look smoke gray and the stars light up a corner of the room and Liam doesn’t know why his mind is mapping out the clothes Zayn has strewn on the floor but it’s the only thing that stops him from thinking about the way Zayn feels so hard inside of him.  Or the way Zayn’s fingers, still sticky with lube, trace against his hip like he’s thinking of inking Liam’s skin there.

 _A Batman symbol_ , he thinks with a smile, shifting backwards until Zayn gasps against the back of his neck.

“Don’t do that,” Zayn hisses, inching out before thrusting roughly in, all of it smooth yet uncoordinated.  Zayn leans into his ear, his stubble catching on the skin, to whisper, “Don’t make me think you’re hot for this, babe.  Like you want it as bad as me.  Like, maybe, you just want my dick so far in you that you – “

Liam groans, cuts off the last of the words and his chest hollows out.  He tries to keep his balance and upright like this was not the way he imagined they’d do this the first time – on his bed back home, the lights dimmed but still bright enough he can see Zayn’s soft lips, wide eyes while lying on his back with his thighs trembling for Zayn – but he’s not quite sure he put much effort into musing over this until Louis and his words crowded Liam’s mind.

“Babe,” he chokes out, a hand searching out Zayn’s and tangling their fingers over Liam’s belly.

Zayn grins into his shoulder, draping the kind of kisses that bite but calm him over his skin – _We’re never done with killing time. Can I kill it with you ‘til the veins run reds and blue?_ Liam leans into them, something like a smile sparking over his lips.

He eases into the sensations bracketing his body – the pain still sharp and constant; the pleasure riding a wave that tumbles goosebumps across his skin; the sweat that sticks to their bodies like honey and keeps them connected – while shifting his free hand back to grip Zayn’s hip, drawing him deeper.

“ _There_ ,” he stutters out, Zayn pushing so needy against his prostate.  He grins back, desperate, and Zayn shakes against his back.  “For a second, Zayn, please.”

Zayn snickers into his neck, nodding.  His hips rotate – a shift to the right, a slow wind like clockwork to the left, and his body feels in tune with Zayn’s.  A smile lifts the corners of his mouth – _We come around here all of the time. Got a lot to not do. Let me kill it with you_ – when Zayn nuzzles his nose to the long column of Liam’s neck and they sway together until Zayn knocks his hips to Liam’s arse and the onslaught continues so dreamily.

Liam bites down into his lip when Zayn’s fingers shift down his spine, added pressure until Liam arches on instinct, and the breathy sounds behind him rattle against his skin – _You pick me up and take me home again_.

Zayn’s careful until Liam adjusts and it’s continuous from there.  Cautious fingers that soothe as Zayn’s hips thrust.  Casual kisses coupled with light nips of teeth as Liam learns Zayn’s rhythm, hitches on a breath when Zayn does it all with flare and confidence.  The sheets are still so cool beneath his skin and he hears himself – _Head out the window again. We’re hollow like the bottles that we drain_ – go quiet, little breaths that are supposed to be moans but sound more like a rush of something wild from his lips.

“Did she make you get loud?” Zayn asks with a smirk, fingers pulling sharply on a tuft of Liam’s hair and he’s never been into this kink – the dominance, the sting of _rough_ coupled with _affection_ that haunts.  He’s always been gentle, gentle with soft and calloused hands that calm a lover into arousal rather than entice them into wreckage.

He’s never been like this until Zayn.

Liam groans, hoarse and rough, shaking his head.  The march of skin against skin plays in his ears, along with – _You drape your wrists over the steering wheel. Pulses can drive from here. We might be hollow, but we’re brave_.  It’s the vulnerability and he feels the need to do anything to show Zayn that, yes, he can be loud.  And he can give with the take.  He can – _and will_ – be the best Zayn’s been with.

Next time – _next time_ , he muses with a grin because he has plans for there to be a next and a time after and that time right before the twentieth time – he thinks he wants Zayn to go bare.  He wants to feel the flutter of Zayn’s cock against his prostate and the way Zayn will probably keen and coo and come wetly inside of him.

He doesn’t shiver at that, but he does.  Fuck, he does.

The bed creaks with the pace they move – _And I like you. I love these roads where the houses don’t change_ – and Zayn’s fingers wrap loosely around his cock for an experimental tug that rolls Liam’s eyes back.

He thinks of that boy in first year from Environmental Studies that Harry still doesn’t know about who taught him the meaning of tension and _‘relax, baby, don’t hurt yourself on it.’_ It taunts him the way those three times they fucked after coffee and textbooks meant nothing because Liam barely remembers the guy’s name and he’s certain that – _Peter, Cal, Ashton,_ maybe _Ben_ – probably doesn’t remember slicking Liam’s throat with his come.

But this thing with Zayn?  He can’t forget, not even before it’s happening.

“Tell me,” Zayn says, panting breaths against Liam’s ear.  His fingers curl tighter, his thumb swiping around precome.  “Just, fuck, summat, Li, yeah?”

“Perfect,” Liam hisses out, the flow of blood making his cock harder, stiffer.

His toes curl – completely clichéd but true – and he’s swallowing against dead air.  His lips feel chapped, even after Zayn’s kisses them wet and bruised again, and he flexes his muscles against Zayn’s dick until the boy behind him trembles.

“Would she be this good?” Zayn wonders, his voice a little less teasing and a little more… _honest_.  “The one downstairs?  The ones before?  Danielle?”

Liam chokes on a sob, teeth pinching his bottom lip.  He shakes his head, eyes fluttered shut with Zayn’s other fingers moving freely on his hip like _thank you_ and _please say it_.

“No, babe,” Liam manages with his throat closing around the words.  “None of ‘em.  Not like this.”

He remembers sweaty, rough sex with Danielle.  Confusing and quite short sex with that one girl the first time.  His throat closing up around a cock, rough hands biting at his chest the first time he let someone ride him.

 _Nothing_.  Empty spaces in time that he can fill with Zayn now.

The room feels empty and cold – _You got me orange juice. We’re getting good at this_ – except its crowded with their moans and the pulse of their bodies.  Liam smiles, sweet and dopey, as Zayn rocks a little faster, out of rhythm, and he loves that he knows what that means.  He loves that Zayn’s hand jerks perfectly on his cock until he’s breathless and dipping into the deep end of the ocean.

“Fuck,” Zayn groans, pressing his forehead to Liam’s shoulder – _Where we can talk like there’s something to say_ – and Liam inches into the closeness.

Liam smiles into Zayn’s cheek and forgets what control means when Zayn pounds against his prostate.  He flutters around Zayn’s cock, purposely and not, until Zayn bites at his shoulder with a laugh.

“You’re teasing,” Zayn giggles, his index finger tickling the underside of Liam’s cock, “and you’re going to make me nut off before you.”

There’s a pause in the way Liam rocks against Zayn and he’s so fond of this boy.  So amazed that, yeah, Zayn wants him to get off first.  He wants Liam breathless and damp with sweat and wasted on Zayn’s loving hands because he _cares_ , nothing else.  It leaves him winded and the stars will never look as beautiful as Zayn’s face when Liam cranes his neck to look at him – _I’m glad when we stopped kissing the tar on the highway. We move in the tree streets. I’d like it if you stayed_.

Liam comes, sudden and overwhelmed, with Zayn’s lips on his jaw and fingers gripping him tightly.  He’s halfway through a gasp and Zayn’s name and the room brighter now with the glow of sex.  He’s slick with sweat and Zayn’s fingers are sticky with his come, the sheets striped a delicate white that Liam focuses on until Zayn shakes behind him and pulses deep.

He bites at his lip, everything numb and weak, and Zayn’s heavy breaths against his shoulder echo louder than his heart.  He feels Zayn’s lips tip into a smile and he shivers when Zayn pulls out of him, turn instantly just to kiss him – _And I like you_ – until Zayn stops giggling into the kiss and groans into it.

They lie at the foot of the bed, tangled in sheets and limbs, with Zayn giggling into the crook of his neck.  Their kisses taste like _gratitude_ and _shyness_ and Liam loves the way Zayn’s cheeks keeping pulsing a soft pink whenever Liam compliments him.

“You were,” Liam says around a breath that expands his chest wide and Zayn’s already shying away, “like I never.  Not like _that_.”

Zayn nods, sucking on his own bottom lip until it’s a gorgeous red, shiny with saliva and pride.

“Housekeeping is going to hate you,” Zayn tells him, fingers that are tacky and sticky with lube, come, and Liam remembers them on his body in a more erotic way, trace out his full name – _Zayn Javadd Malik_ … a pause before he adds a _Payne_ like it means something – across Liam’s chest.

“But fuck, babe, can we do that again in like twenty minutes?” he adds and Liam smiles, his cheeks high, eyes crinkling just at the corners.

Liam laughs, fingers absently tracing the feathers on the back of Zayn’s neck, his thumb stroking over the bruises and scars that decorate Zayn’s hand.

“Maybe in an _hour_ and after a shower.”

“Or _in_ the shower?” Zayn proposes and Liam’s not opposed to skipping rules and regulations about waiting thirty minutes before fucking again to spread his legs, with a still slick hole and weak limbs, for Zayn ten minutes from now.

He grins into Zayn’s neck instead and counts the beats of Zayn’s pulse until Zayn’s sliding a hand across his stomach – affectionate rather than lustful, something Liam doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

**

The morning wakes him with cool lube, warm fingers, and a startled smile on Zayn’s lips rather than the sheer force of sunlight and blue skies.

It’s still early – _too early for Zayn_ , he thinks but he’s too distracted by fingers circling his prick to care – and the sky is a splatter of pinks, oranges against hazy blue and the first thing he notices after blinking away sleep is the bruises that decorate Zayn’s collar and lower neck.

He’s sheepish about grinning and Zayn’s already got him a glass of orange juice and scrambled eggs at bedside but Liam concentrates on the way Zayn’s thighs bracket his hips rather than the smell of grease and citrus.

He rubs shaky fingers over Zayn’s bare hips as a _good morning_ and bites down on his bottom lip, eyes fluttering at the way Zayn slicks him up without even looking.

“This is new,” Liam says, his voice still cracked and weighed down by sleep.

Zayn nips at his bottom lip with a small nod, looking swallowed by exhaustion and happiness and a buoyancy that Liam can’t name.  He doesn’t try to as he works his fingers along the bones of Zayn’s hip, concentrates on the way Zayn pulls sticky fingers from his cock and they disappear into – _oh_.

“Couldn’t wait for you forever,” Zayn tells him with a small hiss and a scrunched brow.  “Sorry.  ‘m not used to doing this quite as often.”

 _‘Often as what?’_ lingers in Liam’s mind but he steadies fingers to Zayn’s thigh now – comfort and assurance burned against the tips.  He massages a thumb over strained muscle and Zayn fingers himself slowly, one finger swirling before another stretches him wider.

Liam wants to offer up assistance – and maybe he just wants to know how Zayn looks with his thick fingers working him open, stretching Zayn broad and loose – but he chokes on a moan when Zayn’s eyes shift shut and nirvana passes over his face.

“Are we trying something, well, _different_ this morning?” Liam wonders and it’s not phrased the way he wants but Zayn’s blinking eyes tells him that Zayn gets it.

“Um,” Zayn pauses, hitching on the way his fingers scissor himself open, “not really.  Kind of.  There was this one lad – “

Liam tries to control his expression but his brows knit together and his fingers tighten on Zayn’s thigh until they mark him with red stains against pale skin.

“ – it was nothing, honestly.  A small experiment,” Zayn admits, running an assuring hand over Liam’s chest like he’s sorry.

Liam thinks apologies and explanations are not needed in moments like this.

“A mate?” Liam inquires though his head and heart says he shouldn’t.

Zayn bites a little firmer on his lip, eyes dropping.  “An acquaintance.  Right after A-Levels and when you were – “

 _With Danielle_ , Liam thinks, nodding.  He wonders how many of Zayn’s _firsts_ were missed chasing a relationship that damaged more than it satisfied.  He rubs his thumb along Zayn’s clenched stomach muscles and it’s enough for Zayn to raise his eyes once again.

“This is not an experiment?” Liam asks, leaning up on his elbows.  He wants to close the distance and he thinks Zayn reads it in his eyes because lube-slick fingers curl around his shoulder and breathy kisses meet his lips.

“No,” Zayn says, low with uncertainty.  He lips trace out words that hang on his tongue and Liam licks them away before he adds, “Not unless ‘s what you want.  Y’know, just between mates and all.  I can handle that.”

Liam furrows his brow and he sniffs at the heady scent of cinnamon and sweat from last night and _denial_ never felt so prominent before.

He swallows, unable to sink into the proper words and Zayn nods, pulling back with a small grin.

“I can handle that,” Zayn repeats and Liam doesn’t think he can.

He knows he _can’t_ and it pricks harshly against his skin because he knows he should say more.  He thinks, disappointment abound, that he doesn’t know _how_ to.

The space between awkward and clarity feels incredibly large before Zayn’s hissing, teeth sinking into his lip as he lowers himself onto Liam’s bare cock.  It’s unexpected – maybe he thought Zayn would grab a condom or maybe he thought this might not really be happening because it’s insanely early and dreams can feel this real, honestly – and Liam instinctively curls his fingers around Zayn’s hips to slow him.

“Careful,” Liam whispers, leaning up, and they fall out of balance for a moment but quickly find their placing with Zayn nearly seated in his lap.  “Don’t rush – “

“I can take it,” Zayn says with a breathy laugh and it still sounds like _I can handle that_.  It nearly draws a frown on Liam’s lips until pleasure seeps into his spine and Zayn bottoms out.

Complexity ruins the moment when they try to kiss with Zayn’s hole stretching and Liam’s cock savoring the hot, tight grip of flesh around it.  He manages to drag his lips along Zayn’s morning stubble – it’s thick and prickly and shadows all the accents of Zayn’s features – and Zayn settles his hands on Liam’s shoulders for support when he lifts up.

Zayn works himself gradually onto Liam’s cock and Liam remains perfectly still.  He holds breaths that burn in his chest and keeps his hands on Zayn’s waist for _comfort_ and _salvation_ until Zayn finds the rhythm he wants.  His legs spread and his knees dig into the mattress and all Liam sees is the sun exploding in front of him.

Liam grins at the moan that sits on Zayn’s lips for a long exhale when he manages to thrust up into Zayn.  He pulls Zayn down on him, fighting against Zayn’s need for _control, control, control_.  He surrenders when Zayn bites at his ear and nuzzles his nose to Zayn’s collarbone when Zayn rolls his hips just right.

“Feels good,” Liam mutters before Zayn can ask, embarrassed at the way his mouth stays parted through a wheezing keen and Zayn giggles into his hairline.

“Really?”

“Don’t ask shit like that,” Liam growls, licking a long stripe up the center of Zayn’s chest.  “Y’know better.”

Zayn hums agreement and clenches tightly around Liam.  “But I like hearing you say it.”

Liam sucks marks against Zayn’s collarbone rather than arguing.  He rucks his hips up with a little more intent, loves the way Zayn tips his head back with a smirk and quiet moans.  He works still dry lips over Zayn’s chest, etching his tongue against ink and lips and wings until Zayn begs him off for space.

“No,” Liam hisses, curling strong arms around Zayn’s back and he fucks into him until Zayn’s nothing but silent whines.  “Let me show you.”

“Show me what?” Zayn asks through teeth nibbling at his lip.

Liam glances up, defeated at the way Zayn arches an eyebrow and it’s suddenly so serious.  So real.

“I don’ know,” Liam confesses and he doesn’t.  He doesn’t have a definition or a large vocabulary like Zayn or a common understanding of modern language like Harry and it sinks his shoulders but refuses to calm the way his hips snap upward to meet Zayn’s downward fall.

Zayn nods, eyes closing around a moan and Liam takes the hint.  Words are completely unnecessary.

Liam reaches back to rub a finger around the slick, stretched rim of Zayn’s hole and Zayn stutters on a thrust.  He coos and digs impatient fingers into Liam’s shoulder that hurt but Liam’s willing to suffer to end this expanse of silence.

“Babe,” Zayn gasps, ducking his head with flushed cheeks because the sound draws up a large grin over Liam’s lips.  “Stop being daft.”

“Stop being _beautiful_ ,” Liam counters and they’re both a little wide-eyed at the way it sounds coming off of Liam’s tongue.  He lets his lips curl into a soft, tiny smile that Zayn giggles at, leaning in to kiss it off Liam’s lips.

“You always say things that you don’t – “

“I _do_ ,” Liam argues kindly against Zayn’s mouth, blanking on the way Zayn’s nose wrinkles and his lips go slack.  “I mean ‘em all the time, Zayn.  Like now.  And later on.”

It’s like a promise – _It’s so cold in this country. Every road home is long_ – and Liam presses it to Zayn’s mouth until Zayn sighs content.

Their hands roam freely as Liam spreads Zayn’s thighs a little wider and Zayn curls fingers to the soft hair at the nape of Liam’s neck.  He loves how thick Zayn’s Yorkshire accent gets while he’s inside, when Zayn’s truly happy.  It rings off his ears, attached to the – _good luck, bad luck, survival. Sleep is my friend and my rival_ – that pulses through his mind.

“Harder,” Zayn pleads and Liam complies immediately, thrusting up into Zayn until they’re both breathless and reeling.

Zayn’s cock leaks thick, sticky drops of precome along his stomach and he’s tempted to snake a hand between them to finish Zayn off.  But Zayn seems so determined – riding him faster, snapping his hips, dragging lazy, wet kisses along Liam’s neck – and Liam feels so on edge.

“I’m gonna – “

Lips crash against his like an _okay_ and Liam’s muscles tighten up.  He feels stiff and uncompliant until everything rushes out – oxygen, thoughts, moans, his come.  He shakes beneath Zayn, holding him down until his cock stops throbbing and Zayn’s grinning into his hair.

“You were so,” Zayn shudders and runs kisses down Liam’s sweat-slick forehead, “ _deep_ , babe.  Just fuck.  Can we go again?”

Liam laughs and gently surrounds Zayn with his arms.  He lifts Zayn up, easing him against the sheets and when he slides out, Zayn whines like _no, no, not yet_.

Zayn’s desperately hard and willing beneath him and Liam uses it against him.  He leaves feverish kisses along Zayn’s cheek and jaw, easing a hand beneath them and his fingers slick into Zayn so effortlessly.  He balks against hesitation and reasoning to work in his middle and ring fingers while Zayn shudders on a gasp of air.  He smiles against Zayn’s cheek and Zayn’s so loose, hot, wet with Liam’s come.

“C’mon babe,” Liam whispers huskily with that dark tone to his voice that draws up trembles from Zayn’s thighs to his arms.  “Wank off for me.  Give it a jerk with my fingers and all of me inside of you.”

Zayn doesn’t hesitate and Liam’s grinning at the way Zayn spits into his hand and fastens it around his cock before either of them can properly inhale again.

Liam licks a clean line up Zayn’s neck, tasting the sweat and the soap from the shower and _Zayn_ – he thinks he loves that part the best.  He listens to Zayn’s shallow grunts and adores the way Zayn works his hips onto Liam’s fingers, the wet sounds they create desperate.  His fingers feel slick and sticky from come but he keeps fucking into Zayn with them until Zayn goes shocked still and Liam’s name has never sounded so amazing before.

There’s broken breaths leaving Zayn’s lips minutes later and he’s cuddled close, trying to hold Zayn through the last of it all.  He drags his nose along Zayn’s jaw and pretends this is going to matter hours from now.

He doesn’t know if it will.  He doesn’t know when _‘just mates’_ _becomes ‘something more’_ and if Zayn’s as willing as he is now.

“Wan’ a kip before we head up to Lou’s?” Zayn offers, his voice a little distant even though his fingers on the back of Liam’s neck remind him that Zayn’s still so close.

Liam nods, still resisting against words.  He forgets the orange juice and the eggs and the hint of disappointment that ghosted over Zayn’s face earlier when definition and _I can handle that_ stung so unpleasantly between them.  It just feels so unfair to focus on those things when Zayn, well, he’s _here_.  In Liam’s arms with droopy eyes and a smile fixed to his lips like he’s forgotten too.

He draws in his bottom lip and waits until Zayn’s breath evens out before he finally exhales.  He pulls Zayn in so tightly that there’s no clear definition where he starts and Zayn ends and closes his eyes on the _‘stay with me forever, I promise I want more’_ that slices through his mind so haphazardly.

**

Niall wants to grab a car and drive up to LA for the day, Louis pleads for steak dinners and tickets to Mystère, Harry craves the buffet, drinks at the Aria before a night at TAO while Zayn wants to explore a few more of the hotels while trying another hand at Black Jack.

Liam begs them all off for an evening in, just one last night with _his boys_ before the plane ride home and _separation anxiety_ – he Googled the definition and, after a little convincing from Harry, studied a few techniques for survival because _‘it’s going to happen Li.  School and distance will end this.’_ – sets in.  It takes a while – and maybe a set of pouted lips, sad eyes – but Louis finally offers up their suite and Niall orders them Chinese takeaway while Harry suggests _Take Me Home Tonight_ as Zayn buys a bottle of Parrot Bay to shift between the five of them.  And Liam realizes, huddled on the floor between spicy chicken, sweet and sour, duck sauce, and plastic forks that this is the kind of memory from their trip that will actually last the course of years.

Harry, Niall, and Louis feast on pork-fried rice while Liam and Zayn trade off steamed rice and lamian noodles.  Liam feeds Zayn far too crunchy veggie egg rolls with a grin and Louis hums loudly to all of the tunes from the film – _And she’ll tease you and unease you. All the better just to please you_ – as Niall breaks open everyone’s fortune cookies like a child on the birth of Christmas morning.  It’s streamlined laughter that Liam buries himself in with Harry dancing on one of the couches after one too many shots of rum and Liam drumming the opening beats of – _Don’t you forget about me. I’ll be alone, dancing you know it baby_ – across Louis’ thigh.

“Y’know, ironically,” Louis starts, adding a toxic mix of Hawaiian Punch and pineapple juice to his cup of rum while Niall pops in _Sixteen Candles_ – Friday nights and pepperoni pizza feels so tangible now.

“Do you know the definition of the word?” Harry asks with a wave of his hand and something charming creasing his lips, dimples inching in deeper.  Zayn nudges a foot to Liam’s side and that grin on pinkish lips is a constant that Liam knows he won’t soon forget.

Louis flips him off with an equally biting smile that Harry balks at.  “Twat.”

“Nice choice of word.”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis snaps and Harry shrugs halfheartedly, swiping fingers through his curls.

Liam leans up into Zayn, brushing their shoulders and trying to cuddle into something memorable.  His fingers find the curve of Zayn’s hip and Zayn only flinches a little like _distance_ and _space_ are casual pieces of their puzzle now.  The frown that pulls at Liam’s lips only lasts for a breath before Zayn’s feeding him spicy Mongolian and soy sauce-drenched noodles.  He focuses on caramel eyes and the curve of Zayn’s mouth is so, so familiar now.

Louis clears his throat while Niall stuffs his mouth full of beef and broccoli.  Liam nearly misses it with Zayn’s fingers sliding over his scalp and he reaches his own fingers out to tiptoe down the swell of Zayn’s thigh through the denim.

“This is our last day here and the first time I think we’ve all felt so,” Louis pauses, blue eyes glancing over Harry for a second too long, “okay with where we are.”

Niall nods with a chuckle, Harry’s lip twisting in that oddly conservative way that hides his thoughts.  Liam leans into Zayn’s touch and _okay, we’re okay_ thumps through his mind while Zayn scoots just a little closer with his elbow brushing Liam’s ribs.

“Again,” Harry hums, forking at some meat and dipping it into sauce, “do you know the definition of ironic?”

Louis tosses a handful of rice at him and Liam buries his laugh into Zayn’s shoulder when Niall sings, loudly – _It’s like rain on your wedding day. It’s a free ride when you’ve already paid_.

“So _we_ ’re okay?” Harry wonders, dusting off rice – _It’s the good advice that you just didn’t take_ – while narrowing his emerald eyes at Louis.

Louis freezes, Zayn hiccupping a gasp, and Liam leans back with the warm taste of rum and regret sliding across his tongue.  There’s a stirring sweep of silence in between _‘I can’t believe this.  They forgot my fucking birthday’_ and Long Duk Dong and Niall’s always fit so well into anything awkward and unpleasant.

“I had sex with the most amazing stripper last night,” Niall announces halfway through a carton of rice and a warm shot of rum.  “The t’ings she did wit’ her lips and I think she snuck a finger in the backdoor – “

“Are you fucking _serious_?” Louis barks out, words crowded by laughter.

Niall shrugs.  “She had this amazing voice and I couldn’t help it, y’know.”

Harry giggles, fingers just missing Zayn’s against the nape of Liam’s neck and he’s warm, warm with the two of them holding him in place before he loses all of this.

He knows _inevitable_ because it’s a word he taught himself, somewhere after secondary school and just before University started up.

“You’re ridiculous,” Zayn snorts, his thumb pressing lightly to Liam’s birthmark and _just mates_ is the only thing ridiculous about this.

“Have you actually ever fallen in love mate or is your life going to consist of chapter after chapter of one offs?” Louis wonders, leaning back to stretch long and wide like a cat, mewling when Niall punches his thigh.

“I ‘ave fallen in love before bro,” Niall groans, slipping on one of those vintage Chicago Bulls snapbacks that presses down floppy blonde hair and makes him look fifteen again.

Louis arches an eyebrow, slowly sipping at sugary rum.  “Honestly?”

Niall nods quickly, downing half of his own alcohol.  “There was this lad – “

“A _guy_?” Louis chokes out, sputtering on his drink while Harry leans forward with a wide grin, interest keen, and elbows on his knees.

Liam can’t help the way his own brows raise and Zayn’s fingers clutch the hem of his shirt tightly, stretching out the collar.

“ – somewhere after school and before I decided I didn’t want to go to Uni.  We messed about for a few months and, I don’ know, he was nice.”

Liam smiles quietly, inching an arm around Zayn’s shoulder while Harry nods and finishes off the noodles.  Louis’ still gasping for air and it’s silly really, the way he’s reduced to small snickers when Zayn leans into his neck and presses a smile there like they’ve all had their secrets – _‘’ve watched my best mate fall sickeningly hard for you for the past three years.’_

“What happened?” Harry inquires, topping off half a glass of Coke with rum.

Niall shrugs, blue eyes distant.  “His name was Josh and he was a drummer – “

Harry grins wildly with large, curious green eyes.  “Did he bang your – “

Niall flips him off before Harry’s words finish, rolling his eyes expectantly.  “He’s with a band, I think.  We had our own little thoughts on where we wanted to be and he took his own road.”

Louis groans, sounding wounded and he curls into Niall like a kitten looking for something warm to cuddle to until Niall draws his fingers through product-stiff hair, everything looking peaceful and _home_ is what Liam thinks about.

 _These boys are his home_.

“Stupid Josh,” Louis grumbles, pushing up into Niall’s light touches.  “Stupid boys and breaking hearts.”

Niall laughs, loud and winded, his thumb working over Louis’ temple and Liam pretends not to notice the way Louis’ eyes are fixated on Harry like _you broke my heart_ , biting at his lip until Zayn drags it free and offers up soothing strokes of his thumb.

“Tis life bro,” Niall insists and Louis can’t argue against that.  He simply looks away from Harry and this distance, even in the small space they occupy together, feels so incredibly draining.

**

They’re halfway through _Bridesmaids_ – and he wheezes on a laugh when Harry and Louis accidentally turn to each other to sing _‘Someday somebody’s gonna make you want to turn around and say goodbye’_ – with Zayn and Niall sitting in the windowsill, sharing a cigarette and little touches that remind Liam that it’s been longer for them: this distance, this separation, this void in friendship.  Louis’ burned through half a joint Harry bought off of some guy in the street the day before and he’s eerily calm, reclined on one of the couches with Harry idly running fingers through Louis’ hair and _separation anxiety,_ he reminds himself because he knows – _they all know_ – it’s approaching.

Zayn’s staring off into the beautiful skyline from this height where the streets are lit up yellows, greens, neon pinks, an electric blue while Niall chats up Spain, the shops in Italy, the casinos in Atlantic City, the bridges in New York, the encompassing and romantic views in France – _‘I’ve always wanted to go to Nice.  Paris maybe’_ – and Zayn takes a moment to grin down at him.  He takes a slow drag from his fag and blindly reaches out to push his fingers against the pulse beneath the feather woven into the inside of Liam’s forearm.  Liam settles beneath the smoke and Niall’s laugh and Zayn’s touch – _It was empty ‘til you came up through the honey. Nothing ever goes as planned_ – until all of his senses feel calm, calm, bearable.

“C’mon lads,” Harry says, dragging Louis up from the couch and they fit like they always did – awkward and perfect – with Harry’s chin on Louis’ forehead, “the Strip one last time, yeah?”

Niall cheers and Zayn laughs, finishing off the cigarette with his calloused fingers still moving softly up Liam’s forearm.  Liam swallows, his heart climbing his throat and he hates when Zayn pulls away to stub out the cigarette and follow the others toward the door.

He blinks at their backs and Zayn gives him a curious look over his shoulder, teeth holding down his bottom lip but his smile still shows through the curve of his mouth – _There’s a fire in your chest, I see the flame. They better watch it if they pick a fight_.

“C’mere,” he says, his voice smoke-heavy and cracked but those eyes – a pinwheel of olive and honey – are bright, bright.

Hesitation refuses to weigh down his shoulders and he’s to his feet quickly, a thud in his chest at the way Zayn laughs at him and clumsy steps carry him the short distance until they’re colliding.  He’s securing an arm around Zayn’s back and letting Niall drag him by his collar and these boys are his anchor.

They’re all he’s ever needed.

**

They move through the maze of the crowd with grins, Louis leading them with Harry being bracketed off by Niall on his left and Zayn on his right.  Liam stays close to Harry’s back, rough fingers down the center to keep Harry moving past the Cosmopolitan and down around the pulse of Planet Hollywood.  There’s a spreading warmth in his stomach when Zayn keeps reaching back, crinkled eyes and deliberate smile wide, to brush his knuckles over the inside of Liam’s forearm like he’s mapping out the stretch of skin he wants Liam to ink next – he considers a Green Lantern symbol or works from Van Gough or just a simple outlined bird because, cheesy as it is, Zayn takes him to those kind of heights.

Louis makes them stop for shots at Bally’s before circling back toward Paris.  Niall piggybacks Harry while Louis laughs stupidly and Zayn twines their fingers together in the midst of it all.

“Stay close,” Zayn whispers, biting down on a grin that stutters Liam’s footsteps – _When you find out the ones that keep you lifted, love them ‘cause they keep you out of your head_.

 _I’ll never go far_ , Liam thinks and his fingers brush against Zayn’s knuckles to say what his lips can’t.

They stay near to the edge of the street with Harry chasing Niall into traffic after he shoves ice down Harry’s shirt and Louis finds a group of girls to buy him vodka and salted pretzels and a tall glass of Hurricane.  Liam knocks his shoulder to Zayn’s and grins dopily into Zayn’s neck when the other boy isn’t looking.

“Think we could convince Niall to keep us here another week?” Zayn wonders, dragging his stubble over Liam’s forehead until it burns and pinks Liam’s skin but he doesn’t mind.

Not if it means he can think in quiet beats, his chest swelling with something that has a four-letter name he can’t quite convince himself to say aloud.

“Maybe,” he whispers back, sniffing at the vanilla and nicotine, “but I don’ think we could convince Lou and Haz.”

“Maybe,” Zayn says softly with a smile and Liam follows his eyes to where Harry’s tossing an arm around Louis’ smaller shoulders, guiding the boy away from the crowd and the shifting lights and the stars above aren’t quite as loud or bright as the look in Louis’ wild blue eyes.

Liam presses a grin to his own lips and lets Zayn walk him a little further down the already crowded streets to something else, something more them.  He hates how he’s already decided that _them_ is what he fears he’ll lose most in the morning – _When you’re walking and the lights are changing color; remember how I held your hand._

**

“Y’know,” Zayn says through a cloud of smoke with a small smile that keeps pushing the one on Liam’s face higher and higher, “you were my first kiss with a lad.”

The lights of the Bellagio tower glow a soft purple hue, outlining Zayn’s features in lavender and Liam blinks at him for a second with a knit brow.  He can hear a hush fall over the crowd from where they are, just a few feet in the distance from the fountains.

Zayn chuckles, taking a quick haul from his cigarette before blowing the smoke away from Liam.  He does his best to fan it off but their hands are still clasped, fingers running over knuckles and soft skin and Liam’s certain he’s not releasing Zayn anytime soon.

“It was at some daft party,” Zayn explains, lowering his eyes to watch Liam’s pinky outline the swallow tattoo.  He licks out another smile, softer now, and sniffs at the air before adding, “We were all sitting around playing Truth or Dare – “

It hits Liam, the low lights in Louis’ basement with a crowd of kids none of them really hung around but the absence of _cool_ and _relevant_ were things Louis couldn’t live with.

“ – and drinking that Burton Bitter Harry nicked off his stepdad.  Louis and El were snogging in the corner to ‘Valerie,’” and Liam remembers with a grin – _Why don’t you come on over Valerie_ with Louis’ hands on Eleanor’s back.

“Haz was off smoking joints with Grimmy,” Liam says with a smirk and Zayn nods immediately, looking up through his lashes.

The cigarette dangles loosely from pink, chapped lips and Liam wants to count Zayn’s eyelashes and drag his thumb along his stubble.  He settles for brushing their shoulders together and leaning in to sniff at nicotine and firewood and the play of a smile on Zayn’s lips lets him coast on reverie for a few more breaths.

“You kissed me so I wouldn’t have to kiss that one girl who already graduated – “

“Rebecca,” Liam says with as little venom as he can muster.  It stings off his lips and he can still see the way she looked at Zayn – carnivorous and shameless.

Zayn nods a little slower now, lowering the fag to exhale the smoke from his nose.  His tongue flicks over his lips, the lights shining off the gloss, and not kissing Zayn is the hardest thing Liam’s had to do in hours, maybe longer.

“It was nice,” Zayn admits, his voice stained in smoke but there’s a thick layer of shyness beneath.  “You were a good kisser.”

“ _Were_?” Liam asks, sounding a little shocked and blush pats his cheeks mercilessly.

Zayn snorts, ducking his head and the fringe against his eyes makes him look so young again.

“Are,” Zayn corrects, fingers pushing half-moons against Liam’s skin.  “You _are_ a good kisser.  Quite amazing, y’know.”

Liam laughs, low and breathy, rocking inward and the tip of his nose brushing warmly to Zayn’s cheek pacifies him.

He misses the opening sprouts of water from the fountain, the timed choreography to ‘Time to Say Goodbye’ to watch the lights dance off of hazel and gold and the way Zayn’s smile feels completely like home.  It’s the perfect distraction and he licks out a grin to match Zayn’s, choking on words, a fistful of words that are still waiting to escape his throat.

“What happens when we go back?” Zayn asks, short puffs of his cigarette showing his anxiousness.  His feet shuffle on the pavement and Liam pulls in just to corner him, just to swallow his uncertainty.

“What happens,” Liam repeats quietly, rocking on his heels to ‘Your Song’ in the background.

Zayn nods quickly, swallowing something down.  Liam wants to know the words that are fluttering in Zayn’s chest, wants every syllable to mean more than _just mates_.

“You’re so far away,” Liam whispers and it means so much more.

“’m right here,” Zayn giggles out, shuffling his feet forward and their chests almost meet somewhere in the middle with Zayn’s fingers tangling in Liam’s belt loops and Liam running thick fingers just beneath Zayn’s t-shirt.

“No, I mean,” Liam sighs, dropping his chin.

“I know,” Zayn says and he’s even closer now.  Right here, lips to the bridge of Liam’s nose, feet slotted between Liam’s.  “Know what y’mean, babe.”

“You call me that loads,” Liam chuckles, nudges Zayn’s knee with his own before lifting his head a little.

Zayn shoots him a put on face, incredulous in all of its meaning, before blinking long lashes at him.

“I call everyone that.  Lou or Haz or Ni – “

“No,” Liam says quickly and his heart collides with stubborn thoughts.  His fingers leave behind a ghosting of goosebumps over Zayn’s skin and this feeling is immortal in his chest.

Liam swallows and waits until Zayn takes another meditative breath of smoke before leaning in to breathe in its faded glory.  “Just me.  You call _me_ that all of the time.”

Zayn nods, uncertain and vulnerable and the reds and whites of the fountain flicker off the gold in his eyes.

“It’s ‘cause,” Zayn pauses, exhaling air instead of smoke, “it’s what you are, innit?  My babe?  Most of the time, at least.  I don’ know.  I guess – “

Liam shakes his head with a snicker.  The laughter bubbles in his stomach when Zayn nudges him and he lets it settle while palming at Zayn’s hip.

“’m okay with it, Zayn, really,” Liam admits, honesty beating louder than ‘Luck Be a Lady’ in the distance.  “I like it.”

“Do you feel the same way?” Zayn asks, his voice cautious, small, nothing like that kid with the dodgy haircuts, baggy chinos, a massive collection of _Iron Man_ comics and unknown intentions of ruining Liam with just his eyes years ago.

Liam tilts his head and starves for oxygen because Zayn, honestly, is beautiful beneath this acre of purple sky and dusting of stars and the lights of the Bellagio illuminating him in bright whites.  He can’t look away from soft hair that’s undone and that thin, cottony shirt that hangs loosely off of his wiry but toned body.  His teeth bite at his lip just as Zayn’s do and this scene is the most familiar of them all.

The one where he thinks they’ve invested enough silence to fill an ocean and enough unsaid _I love you’s_ to crowd the streets of Las Vegas.

“Yeah,” Liam finally says without the kind of confidence he wishes he could mold into his throat.

Zayn drops his cigarette to stub it out and thumbs at the corner of Liam’s mouth until he’s smiling stupidly, swatting Zayn away.

“You used to come to my house when me mummy was gone,” Zayn murmurs with his teeth still holding his lip and his fingers a little skittish as they trace just beneath the waist of Liam’s jeans.

“You were always playing Michael Jackson too loud until your sisters couldn’t take it and then we’d watch reruns of _X-Men_ ,” Liam laughs out.

Zayn nods quickly, eyes brighter now, his lips quirking into – _The way you make me feel. You really turn me on. You knock me off my feet_.

They’re harmonizing – _My lonely days are gone_ – and laughing and Zayn’s mouth runs vibrantly over the side of his neck as the fountains splash and cascade a sheet of water towards the crowd.  Their fingers tangle again and _never let me go_ sits so impatiently on Liam’s lips that he can’t help pressing a small kiss to the corner of Zayn’s mouth.

Silence fits between them again, a wedge he can’t escape and Zayn’s lips curl into a small frown like he’s reading Liam’s thoughts.  Like he can see every little indecision – _Bite your tongue. Don’t make a scene, dear. Everybody’s been at least once before. But we’ve been here more_ – and it makes each one of his touches shier and softer.

“What do you want?” Zayn asks firmly, his eyebrows pinched together and his mouth no longer holds onto that smile that kept Liam at bay for too long.

Liam blinks at the fountain waters, the lights, the dissipating crowd.  He finds Niall in the distance, holding up a plastic cup of beer in salute with a wreath of colorful beads around his neck and a smile too large for his scarlet cheeks and pale face.  Behind him, Liam can spot Harry and Louis crowded together with Harry’s large hands cupping Louis’ face and Louis’ hesitant hands holding Harry’s hips like gravity couldn’t force them apart.

Niall’s cheers outweigh the words Harry and Louis are whispering to each other – _Your heart breaks and rolls down the window. I’ve seen it all go and come back around_ – but there’s seconds before the starry-eyed look on Harry’s face glows bright and Louis steps onto the tips of his toes to press a kiss to Harry’s smiling lips.

Liam turns back to Zayn and the fading lights on his face steal Liam’s breath.

“You,” Liam says on a small inhale, closing the gap again.  “Zee, I think I want you.”

Zayn presses a hand to Liam’s chest before he’s too close and his heart falters under Zayn’s fingers.

“Think?”

Liam grins, lips moving sideways.  “I _know_.  I want you, babe.  I want.”

Zayn laughs into the shock of Liam’s lips against his own and it turns indignant before satisfied, everything moving slower and slower.  He fits their heads together perfectly and his mouth traces little white noises to Zayn’s before a swipe of Zayn’s tongue knocks him off center for the – _I say, ‘Love don’t mean nothing unless there’s something worth fighting for’_ – in his head pulls him back.

He indulges in the taste of smoke and butterscotch from the beer and he tries not to let the shards of confidence outweigh the feeling of enamored.  He pulls back, licking and biting at Zayn’s bottom lip and he can’t help the way he looks on Zayn so fondly, affectionately.

“I think I’ve loved you for longer than I can remember,” Zayn says, just close enough that the next kiss happens before Liam can soak in the reverence of it all.

“Think?” Liam teases, swaying with the wind and slipping his thumb under the hem of Zayn’s shirt to trace _‘don’t think I won’t’_ without reluctance.

Zayn giggles through the next three kisses, knocking his knee against Liam’s.

“I _know_.”

“Me too,” Liam whispers back, lips still on Zayn’s and the words push against his lungs before he adds, “I’ve loved you.  More than just mates, Zayn.”  It fits like a promise and stains like a _forever_ and Liam loves the smile Zayn curves to his lips through another kiss.

“Fuck, I’m in hell,” Niall crows, throwing his arms around both of them and they’re tumbling sideways into Louis and Harry with grins and laughter and – _It’s a beautiful war_ – Liam lets Zayn smile into his neck, lips on his birthmark, hands fit together.

“My boys are all in love and all I want is a nice bird to suck my dick,” Niall pouts and Louis’ incredulous with his expression while Harry giggles into his ear.

“You’re awful,” Harry tells him, tugging off Niall’s snapback and fitting it on his own head to thread fingers into Niall’s fucked out blonde hair.

Niall’s eyes shine like rivers of crystals before he grins.  “And without you lot, I’d be lost.”

It catches Liam off guard, like the way Zayn’s mouth meets his collar or the way Louis sucks in a breath like it’s his first in years, and Harry’s smile is impossibly large against his face.

“Stupid little shit,” Louis groans before they’re all fitting around each other with arms on top of another’s and feet shuffled together.

Niall’s crowded into the middle with that unforgettable laugh and Harry’s hand is low on Louis’ back like a fire in the middle of a snowstorm.  Louis cheeks are coated in a pale pink and Liam keeps squeezing his fingers against Zayn’s hip until he turns in the collision of his boys to accept the kiss that Zayn offers, ignoring the groans from the other three.

He tips Zayn’s chin a little higher, Harry rubbing encouragement into his shoulder and Louis mumbling _‘Three years and finally’_ into Niall’s neck and Zayn smiles against his mouth like separation means nothing in moments like this.

**

“Next Christmas, how about we all holiday in LA?” Niall offers when suffocating on each other’s breaths feels like too much.

They’re crowded outside of Treasure Island now with Harry’s arms engulfing Louis and Zayn twining his fingers in Liam’s under the starlight above them.

“What about Mexico?” Harry suggests and Louis whispers _‘tequila and sunsets’_ to no one but his smile steals some of Harry’s breath away.

“France.  Nice or Paris,” Liam says instead, leaning in to press his lips to Zayn’s neck before whispering, “And just you and me, this time.  They can have the summers but I want the rest.”

Zayn grins, blinking at Liam while using his free fingers to etch out words to Liam’s hip – _I love you, I want that too, for three years now_.

The city still vibrates neon and loud around them but it’s muted against the smiles on their faces and the beers they toast with like giving a fuck stopped being an option long ago.

“You’ll visit more often, yeah?” Harry asks Niall but his eyes flicker on Zayn too just for the casual smile, the blush that rushes his cheeks, the reminder that Zayn is still too far from them, and the way Zayn nods.

“About that,” Niall says slowly and it feels like a _goodbye_ , maybe a _not as much_ before Niall grins out, “I was t’inking about applying to University next fall.  Just a few more tournaments, maybe a few more winnings before I give up this lavish life, yeah?”

Louis looks wide-eyed and so eager while Harry reaches out to grip Niall’s shoulder.  Zayn kicks at Niall’s foot affectionately and Liam buries his excitement in a kiss to Zayn’s cheek.

“Settling down?  Piss off, that’s not the Nialler I know,” Louis teases, reaching out to ruffle already wrecked hair and Niall shrugs.

“m not getting married and having a shit load of kids, dude,” Niall insists but the far-off look that washes over him says otherwise.  It stays like _one day, I will_ and Liam wants to be there for every wedding, every child, every little moment they’ll talk about for years in cities they’ll forget but _solidarity_ , they won’t release.

“We could room together,” Harry offers and Liam’s face scrunches with a wounded look.

Harry waves him off quickly, nudging his hip to Zayn’s until he’s closer to Liam, curling together.

“’s not like I don’t know about your plans to run away with this dolt,” Harry laughs out and Liam blushes hard.  “Y’think I can’t tell?  You’ll be travelling to see each other every weekend, maybe during the week and _Liam James Payne_ , don’t pretend like you haven’t already planned coffee dates, film nights, and convincing Malik that our school offers up a rather wonderful art education department for him to transfer to.”

Liam hides the hot, hot burn of pink in his cheeks against Zayn’s collar and the hand on the small of his back – _Zayn’s_ – feels so comforting.  He searches out that skin on the inside of Zayn’s arm to feather touches against it until he’s certain, in a few months, there will be a Batman symbol and Joker’s smiling lips and their place outside of Zayn’s heart will be _right here_.

Louis arches an eyebrow while draining his beer and Niall’s laugh is terrorizing in ways Liam can’t quite explain but he doesn’t think he has to.

“Next term, I could be celebrating my birthday in your Uni  
room with mine just down the hall,” Zayn suggests and Liam looks up with a dopey smile and wide eyes and _‘I love you’_ falls off his lips easier than it has all of his life.

And he thinks, without any form of hesitance, _they’ll all make it_.  Together, _his boys_ , _his Zayn_ , they’ve made it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! You survived all the way to the end? (or did you cheat and scroll down to the end, hmm?)
> 
> I appreciate all of the feedback I've gotten lately. I am working on not being so dense with the descriptions because I know that can be a bit boring and, well, annoying. I hope this fic wasn't too all over the place and _slow_. Just wanted to get this idea out of my head :)
> 
> As ever, I read all of the comments on here (and gratitude for the kudos) and you can check out [Jesse](http://jmcats.tumblr.com) to chat with me personally.
> 
> Thanks! xx Jesse


End file.
